


Heaven, Earth and Hell

by InterNutter



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, fanfic of a fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Once again, hints and tips on WHN would be appreciated :)</p></blockquote>





	Heaven, Earth and Hell

Disclaimer: The plotbunny comes from Quazar's delicious comic... all six pages of it [waaannnnt mooooorrrre!]. Kurt Wagner and any other X-men belong to Marvel. 'Mama', Karl and his dad belong to Quazar... everyone else has been made up by me. Just like this has.

Warning: This is Darkfic. It's bound to contain naughty words, sad bits, implications - if not outright gory descriptions - of abuse both verbal and physical. If the systematic torture of a young Elf bugs you, maybe you should quit now before jumping on me for writing this. Nobody's forcing you to read any further. Trust me.

Hell, I'm only writing this because of the plotbunny currently savaging my tender portions... at least *you* have a choice ;)

Heaven, Earth, and Hell  
InterNutter

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was the luckiest boy in the whole wide world...  
So Mama told him. It became his favourite story. How Mama had found him as a babe in swaddling, washed up on the shore of the river like Moses. How, at that moment, he had *two* Mamas... only one was far, far away and couldn't know where he was. How, even though Mama hadn't grown him in her body like *other* mamas did with their babies, Mama loved him beyond anything.  
It was the story that made him feel good no matter what. Even if he'd been Karl's punching bag all day long, and Dad had been mean, and nothing had gone right... the story would make him feel better.  
Sometimes, he'd fall asleep in Mama's arms, content to share her warmth and comfort, and it felt like such a moment could last forever.  
Except all that was gone, now.  
Mama had been sick for a very long time, and she had been getting sicker and sicker until God took pity on her and took her away to a place where no sickness could come. She'd told him that it was called Heaven, and even though it, too, was far, far away... she'd always be watching over him.  
_Whatever seperates us,_ she'd said, _remember I will always be there for you._  
And now Mama was gone. All he had of her were the memories in his head, of how she smelled and how her hands would make him feel warm all the way through. How her fingers would rub his ear as he snuggled up to her and make him purr.  
He should be happy. She wasn't sick any more. She'd gone to Heaven, where nothing bad ever happened and you could see anything you wanted to.  
And yet he cried.  
Because he'd been left behind.  
"Told you he'd be here." Karl's voice.  
Kurt put the flower down, not inclined to do much else - even when Dad's heavy footfalls came close enough to make him a little scared. He looked up and over his shoulder. Surely even someone as mean as Dad would have a tiny portion of mercy for a little boy who'd just lost the one person who meant the whole world to him.  
Dad didn't look happy. He had a collar on a metal chain leash in one hand. The other hand reached down for him.  
Kurt cringed, wincing as Dad's meaty hand gripped a handful of hair and lifted him up by it. It did no good to cry out. Mama wasn't here to intervene, any more.  
"I hope you're happy now, demon," Dad shook him, making Kurt try to curl up against the pain. "She's *dead*! And now you're going to repay your debt to this family you tore apart." The jingle of the chain. The tiny bubbles in the corner of his mouth. The *fury* in his eyes. "By serving us, in chains, for the rest of your miserable life!"  
Karl, smug smirk on his face, was the one who fastened the collar around Kurt's neck. Just tight enough to be uncomfortable. "You're getting it easy, freak," he whispered. "We coulda taken your debt outta your mangy little *hide*."  
Dad didn't let him stand up, and Karl didn't let him forget.  
There was a new story, now.  
The Demon Who Killed His Mama.

His name was Kurt. He had to remember that. They called him Demon, but his name was Kurt.  
They called him lots of other things, too, but Demon tended to stick.  
"Hey, freak! Where's my goddamn beer?"  
Kurt stretched himself, reaching for the fridge when his chain was too short to reach it properly. He barely managed to snag a bottle with his tail. The chain *would* reach Dad - he insisted on 'Sir' now - in his comfortable chair in front of the TV.  
"Jesus... shed on it or something, next time," Karl sneered. "You gotta get fur *everywhere* or what?"  
"Entschuldigung," said Kurt on automatic. Then he remembered he had to speak English. "I... sorry. I have not to find my brush, yet."  
Sir wiped his beer clean of fine blue fur and cracked the seal with his teeth. He laughed. "Listen to it. Can't even talk proper. What a shithead. Go clean up, shithead."  
Kurt gathered the remnants of the take-out boxes surrounding Sir's chair, Karl's plate, and returned with them into the kitchen. Only there could Kurt eat without fear of reprisals. Neither Sir nor Karl cared what happened to their food once they'd finished with it.  
And he was always so *hungry*.  
Kurt wasn't allowed anything in the fridge. That's why Sir had kept his leash short enough to barely be able to retrieve things from it. It was why Sir stood over him when there was cooking to be done.  
Heaven help him if so much as a single hair got in any food.  
"Boy, where's the freak's goddamn *brush*?"  
"Dunno. Din't we sell it or somethin'?"  
Kurt winced. They'd been selling off bits and pieces of his old life, fragments of Mama, ever since they'd got him 'broken in'. First, it was the move, and that they couldn't afford to take all the furniture with them. Nor any of Kurt's toys. Then it was the fact that they needed money to pay for this or that. Luxuries for Karl or beer for Sir or anything in-between... but little by little, all hints that Mama had ever been a part of the family vanished.  
They even sold her medicine.  
Kurt barely managed to keep hold of his few fragments of her. The brush. A locket with her picture on one side and a thin plait of her hair on the other. A string of beads with a crucifix on it. He kept the small things in a hidden pocket in his pants. If Sir or Karl knew about them, they'd be hocked or sold by now. The brush, however, was harder to hide. It was only a matter of time before it, too, fell to the attrition that had been happening over the last few years.  
Kurt sighed and tried not to mourn. It was just a thing. It wasn't Mama. Sure, it had helped him remember her, and the golden times when she was well... but it wasn't all-important.  
"Better not've," said Sir. "It's the only thing that stops the demon from shedding all over the damn house. Go find it, boy."  
Kurt ate quickly, lest he be discovered 'stuffing himself' on 'proper food'. The last time it happened, he'd been forced to eat frozen leftovers until his belly threatened to burst. And then Sir had beaten him bloody for it. And he'd had to clean up the mess.  
He should have been grateful for what he was given. He should be thankful every day that he was allowed to live and pay off his debt. And he was.  
It was just that he was so *hungry*... it almost drove him mad.  
Stomping footfalls down the stairs made Kurt choke down the contents of his mouth and pray that he wouldn't choke.  
"Told ya we sold it," said Karl. "See? Here's the hock receipt."  
"Well go back there and *un*-hock it. It's either that or you're shaving the goddamn thing."  
"Why've *I* gotta? It's the freak that sheds."  
"It's you that had to have that gamer thing, boy. It's you that's gotta pay to get the fuckin' brush back or shave the critter. Spend some more damn time an' money on your education."  
Karl mumbled something about his father's ancestry as he grabbed some keys.  
"Yeh, an' if I am, you're one too. Asshat."  
Kurt fumbled through his chores, not quite believing his ears. There was something they wanted to *keep*? For *him*? It was too good to be true.  
And in came Sir with his belt. "You're in a mess of trouble, Demon."  
Ah. It wasn't that good after all.  
Kurt put the newly-cleaned plate in the rack to dry, and placed himself in the middle of the kitchen. So nothing would get broken. "Yes Sir," he said.  
{Krak!} "Don't you *dare* look at me like that!" {Krak!} "You owe me for every breath you take, you stupid freak!" {Krak!} "And how do you repay me?" {Krak!} "You fucking *shed* your dirty diseased fur all over everything in this goddamn *house*!"  
The belt flew at its own pendulum-like impetus, now. Fueled by rage that knew no true ebb. It was thirsty for his blood, today, and didn't stop until Kurt was too weak to fend it off, any more.  
And then came the buzzing. An unfamilliar sound to his ears. Especially so close to his ears. Then, with the first fall of both blue fuzz and long indigo hair, Kurt realized what Sir was doing.  
Sir was shaving him, anyway.  
_At least he won't be able to grab me by my hair for a while,_ he thought. _O Mama... I know you're watching. I'm sorry. I'm trying to be good for you. I'm sorry._  
Sir roughly rode the electronic blade over his face. Kurt knew better than to flinch or fight. He tried to help as best he could, but only earned a slap for his trouble.  
The blade moved over his entire body, sending clouds of flock all over the blood already on the floor. Kurt winced when the blade crossed a fresh cut, but knew better than to put a voice to the pain he felt.  
Sir stripped Kurt's pants off with a vicious yank, tossing them absently at the counter. "Stand still if you know what's good for you."  
Kurt could barely stand *up*. His muscles trembled with the effort.  
The buzzing blade *hurt* when it toured his tail, mortified him around certain areas usually concealed by underwear. Not that he actually got any of his own, any more. He was lucky to scrounge a halfway decent pair from Karl's rejects... and Karl's rejects were flimsy things often bound for such drudgery as cleaning engine parts.  
Finally and at last, the buzzing drone of the blade moved down his bare legs, stripping away fur and agonizing his skin. And once he was done shaving the last atom of fur from Kurt's toes, Sir cropped the last handfuls of hair from his head.  
Karl came back, bearing the brush, and burst into raucous guffaws, pointing. "God *damn* if he isn't blue all over!"  
Sir's belt found his rump easily. "Blasphemy earns ya pennance, boy. *You* know what you gotta do to stay safe from this vermin."  
Karl glared at Kurt. It was a gaze that easily plotted revenge. "Yes, Dad. I'm sorry I blasphemed."  
"Good. Now give the critter its bath."  
Snarled, "Yes, Dad."  
Kurt covered himself as he followed the chain to the bathroom. The water was freezing cold and dosed with too much dettol. Karl was more than enthusiastic with the stiff brush, and took delight in holding Kurt's head under the water until he *had* to struggle.  
It was over, and Kurt sat panting on the bathroom rug.  
Karl had a strange look in his eyes.  
"I thought you looked funny *with* the fur," said Karl. "You're worse than pathetic, now. Nothing more than an ugly-ass freak."  
Kurt looked at his hands. Awkward things with only two thick fingers and a thumb. They were pale blue, now. Shorn of the fur that had made them seem so normal to him.  
Karl's hand. So warm. So suddenly gentle. Rubbing his ear just like Mama used to. "You miss it, don't you?"  
In spite of what he knew was happening... what he knew was going to happen... Kurt leaned into the treasured touch. Wishing it was Mama touching him.  
{zzzzzzzzzziiip...} "Yeah, freak. Show me how much you want it."  
Kurt knew better than to fight. At least it was quicker when he didn't fight it. Besides, Karl was bigger, stronger, and older than him. There was never any point in struggling.  
Once he was finished, those fingers became cruel again. Digging into him. "Breathe a word to Dad and I'll feed you your own tail, got it?"  
"...'es," Kurt managed.   
"Now hurry up and get dried off, Demon. Dad's waiting for you to clean up your filth in the kitchen."  
_I'm not a demon,_ he thought. _I'm one of a kind._

Bleach had eventually worked on the bloodstains, though he'd had to scrape off the bits where the shorn fuzz had caused it to cake. It hurt to do a lot of his usual work, and he was always cold. Blisters and boils hadn't helped, either. Nor had the itch caused by the fur growing back in.  
During that small handful of days, both Sir and Karl had avoided the meals Kurt had had to cook for them - no matter what. They ate take-out and declared that any food he touched was automatically contaminated.  
It was the best that he'd eaten for years.  
And every night, he still prayed. Locked away in the dark of the basement, far away from the eyes of God, he prayed.  
_Take me away,_ he begged. _Take me away to Mama?_  
And God was always silent.  
Maybe God didn't answer a demon's prayers... no matter how good the demon tried to be. No matter how many times he wore through the rosary like Mama had shown him. Praying until his mouth was sore.  
Maybe... he deserved the silence.  
Maybe... he'd earned everything he got for making Mama sick.  
Maybe Mama had lied to him.  
_O Mama... help me?_  
But Mama was silent, too.

His hair was starting to get in his eyes again by the time Sir was running short on money again. He'd run out of even the most pathetic pieces of Mama to sell, and that included the frames around the few existing photographs of her.  
They were now left with the painful decision of which pieces of *themselves* to sell, and they weren't liking it one bit.  
And when they didn't like things, Kurt got hurt.  
He nursed his wounds and listened.  
"How 'bout that old gamer thing you never touch no more? 'S gotta be worth a few bucks..."  
"It's always *my* stuff isn't it, Dad? How come you never want to sell your golf clubs? Or that big fish in the office? Or that computer you never use?"  
{Whack!} "Don't sass me, boy! We need *money* and that demon-loving little *slut* didn't leave us nothing else to sell! So start thinking, or I'll chain *you* up, too!"  
"We could sell the freak?" Karl offered. "Or... or better? We could *rent* it! Yeah. Rent it out. That way we get money all the time. And its already broken an' all..."  
A heart-stopping pause, in which Kurt's hand drifted towards his hidden pocket of treasures. _Please, Mama... no?_  
"You know... all that expensive education of yours might be paying off, boy..."  
Kurt hung his head, careful to crouch in an animalistic posture, lest Sir find out about the pocket. Mama couldn't help him. God didn't want to. All he had was himself.  
Maybe... just maybe... he could run away?

Celia was panting by the time she reached the pick-up where Seth and the Wagner family were waiting. Damn chemo still hadn't worn off. It sapped her strength, even now. At least her scarf was on straight, covering any hint that she was bald.  
"Okay," she managed between gasps. "What's so important... it couldn't come... to my trailer?"  
"Sorry, Celia," said Seth. "They refuse to let it out of their sight until we sign some kind of deal."  
Mr Wagner hit Celia with a sense of instant dislike. He was a big man who knew he was big and intimidating and made it his business to make sure that everyone else knew it, too. He didn't keep himself at all clean and his truck showed every sign of a similar kind of neglect.  
His son simply radiated sleaze. Celia had no doubt that the nearly-grown little sociopath was the sort of kid who tortured insects for fun. He was cleaning his fingernails with a flick-knife and wore gang colours.  
Celia leaned on her cane. "Fine. Let's see what's under the tarp, then."  
Mr Wagner flicked back a corner.  
It was blue. Almost pure, cerulean blue. Except for a patch of darker, longer hair at its head. Celia could pick out its ribs, and instantly catalogued the grey mottling of the fur as a clear sign of ongoing malnutrition. There were darker patches that may or may not have denoted bruising, and parallel marks here and there.  
Wagner swatted it. "Up, Demon."  
Demon yipped and sat up. It was wearing shorts and a collar, attatched to a heavy chain. There was no other protection from the chill weather. Just the tarp.  
_Oh my God..._ it had a spade on the end of its tail. Tridactyl front paws. Feet with only two toes. The heel extended back past the hock in an odd way. But the most disturbing part was the face. At once too animalistic - and not nearly human enough.  
Demon's yellow eyes were way too human.  
No matter where they put him, he'd earn fantastic amounts.  
And then the animal-lover inside spoke up. _We need to heal him from his neglect, first. Get him used to people._  
"How much do they want?" she said. Already, her hands were itching to reach forward.  
"One-twenty grand per annum plus ten percent off the gross."  
"Fifty grand up top," said Celia. "He's going to need a lot of maintenance before we can even safely show him."  
"Eccleston's offered one-twenty G's," said the junior sleaze.  
Celia snorted. "Shyeah. Right. Eccleston's barely *earns* one-twenty inside two years. Try another line, kid."  
"Maybe we'll just *work* for Eccleston's," said the kid. The grip on his knife switched from casual to deadly serious.  
"You do that," she said. "Not only can they not afford extra staff, but ASPCA is following their butts twenty-four-seven. Show up there with a neglected animal and your ass is already in jail."  
The kid dropped his voice to a whisper. "Maybe I'll come back when you're alone and fuck you up."  
"Maybe you should shut up now before I call the law, kid," suggested Seth.  
The kid looked like he'd just crapped his pants.  
Seth just grinned. "The hearing-aid just means I'm deaf. Not *daft*. Learned to lip-read ages ago."  
Wagner rumbled, "Back in the car, *boy*."  
The kid punched the fender on the way into the passenger seat.  
"Sixty grand," said Wagner, briefly glaring venom at his son.  
"Fifty-one," said Celia. "I won't go any higher."  
Wagner glared at Demon, who flinched away until the chain wouldn't let him go any further. He sighed. "Fine. Fifty-one. And ten percent off the gross of any money earned." He reached into the pick-up's back.  
Demon flinched and whimpered.  
Wagner unhitched the chain and handed over a brush with it. "Draw up the contract. I'll sign."  
"This way," said Seth, ushering him towards the office trailer.  
"What the hell do *I* do?" said Celia.  
"You're the animal handler," Seth called back. "Handle it."  
_This is what you get for being a good samaritain, Cee,_ she gathered up the extra length of chain and wrapped the loops over her shoulder. "C'mon, Demon," she cooed, patting the side of the truck. "C'mon..."  
Uncertain, the creature slunk forward.  
Celia offered her knuckles, letting him sniff. "Thaaat's right. Good boy. *Good* boy... Gonna let Cee touch you, hm?" A tentative rub on the cheek. A cautious move to his shoulder. _Wow. He's like living velvet._ A little more gentle coaxing and he was naturally at heel. Keeping pace with her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  
It was amazing. No animal ever reacted like this straight off the bat. Celia rather anticipated having to climb into the trailer with him and lure him off with a succession of treats.  
Maybe someone had been nice to him before Wagner got his hands on him and Demon remembered what nice people were like.  
Whatever it was, it was a puzzle for another day.  
She was exhausted by the time she reached her trailer, and had to sit on the steps in order to catch her breath. Celia leaned on the door frame and rested her eyes. Only for a moment.  
But when she opened them again there was an ice-cold glass of milk in one hand. And no sign of anyone stopping by.  
Strange.  
The milk helped in refreshing her enough to get inside and take her medication. All to help her get better *after* the chemotherapy had damn near killed her. At least it had thoroughly killed the goddamn cancer. Or so the doctors reported.  
The chain was just too damn heavy, so she let it drop as she flopped into a comfortable place to sit. Demon carefully inveigled himself under her hand.  
"Affectionate critter, aren't you?" she said. Her fingers automatically scratched and rubbed.  
Demon favoured her with a very loud, resounding, bass purr.  
"I'll feed you soon," she promised. "I just need... a little... rest."  
Demon's purring guided her into sleep.

Kurt's head was spinning. The last thing he knew, he'd fallen asleep in the stuffy atmosphere of the tarp. Then, when he woke up, he was staring at Mama. Sort of.  
She *looked* like Mama. Except she wore a scarf. And she spoke so *differently*.  
Kurt was confused.  
Maybe he'd gone to Heaven and wasn't quite aware, yet. Suffocation was bound to have done something to him. All the angels were bound to come out when he realized where he was... and all this business with animal training and money was just something his addled mind cooked up to explain why he was here, away from the pain.  
Maybe-Mama lured him close, and took him away from Karl. The other man had taken away Sir, negotiating money and contractual terms. They wouldn't let *Sir* into Heaven... surely.  
Kurt decided to exist in the moment. For now, he was padding softly by Mama's side. Just like he used to, a long, *long* time ago. It was almost like the happy times.  
Except Mama was still sick.  
It *had* taken her years to get too sick to walk any more... maybe Heaven had yet to heal her all the way. Maybe they were testing how well he remembered.  
Maybe-Mama nodded off on the stoop of a trailer. Just like she used to. So Kurt quietly nudged the door open, crept inside, and liberated a glass of milk, placing it in her hand and balancing it on her leg. Maybe-Mama didn't notice him pretending to be innocent, but she did appreciate the milk.  
Poor Mama. Still sick, but getting better.  
He watched her take her pills, remembering the look of Mama's medicine. Maybe-Mama was taking the same things. She fell into a seat and Kurt rubbed his way under her hand. Just like he did when she was too tired to lift it. It used to make her laugh.  
And anyway, he was still scared Sir would find them here and ruin Heaven. Sir had drilled him endlessly on how to behave once he got where he was going, and swore that he had means of finding out if Kurt had done anything human. Kurt's life depended on not making Sir come back for him and teaching him better.  
Therefore, Kurt was *very* careful to only do animal things when anyone was watching. Even though that included Maybe-Mama.  
She rubbed at his head, making him purr, and fell asleep.  
Kurt looked around at the mess the place was in. Maybe... it wouldn't hurt to help her out while she slept.  
Just a little.

The lights were on when Celia snuffled awake. The clock said it was past seven. Her trailer had been - organized. The dishes were clean. The paperwork stacked, pencils sharpened, mail all lined up neatly...  
"What the fuck...?" she murmured.  
Laundry had been picked up. The bed made. Even her pills were arrayed neatly in their place.  
Someone had even removed all the spoiled food in the fridge.  
Her place was *clean*. For the first time since she'd got sick.  
Sure, fellow circus workers came by and helped out, but it was usually when the piles threatened to collapse, or the smell started getting to people. At least one living saint came by once a week to sort out the laundry and the washing up... and today wasn't Thursday.  
Demon was keeping her feet warm by the simple expedient of sprawling across them. Was it her imagination, or was his belly bulging a little?  
Celia reached down. Yep. That was one taut tummy. Stretched to capacity or close enough to it. So. Her mystery housekeeper had either fed the leftovers to Demon - a dangerous practice with an unknown and new animal - *or* Demon had helped himself.  
The latter was far more likely. All newcomers to the circus got the 'do not feed the animals' lecture at least five times. Some of the slower ones still learned by trial and error, in which case they also received the marvellous spectacle of the entire circus saying, 'I *told* you so' ad infinitum, or until their wounds healed - whichever came first.  
Celia wriggled herself free of Demon, gathering ingredients for an actual *meal*. Nothing like having a clean kitchen for inspiring her to cook. She could freeze the leftovers for when she was less than inspired or just too tired from the medication or flat-out couldn't be fucked.  
Certain herbs and spices made her feel better, so she used them in abundance. Hell, even the *smell* made her feel good about her place in the world.  
Down on the floor, a clinking indicated Demon had moved. "I'll feed you soon, promise," she said. "I'll even make sure it's better for you than the stuff from the back of my fridge." And given how much he'd gorged, maybe it'd be better if he got a protein shake. In small doses.  
And then she'd have to see to his accomodations for the night.  
Work, work, work...  
Demon was no longer where she'd left him. Not as though he could go far, but still... the last thing she needed was a surprise in the form of scat in an unwelcome place.  
Wait. Was that the *toilet* flushing?  
Celia put her dinner in progress on low and investigated.  
Yes, the water in the bowl was swirling to a halt. And yes, Demon was in the bathroom and the tap was on.  
"Clever boy..." she murmured. Celia squeezed into the claustrophobic confines and turned the tap off. It took a little juggling to get his paws dry and things untangled to the point where she could get him to sit on a handy chair, but it was worth it.  
Okay. So he purred like a cat, but he didn't do anything *else* like a cat. He fell to heel like a dog, and yet had zero doglike qualities.  
He was certainly one of a kind.  
Were it not for the way Demon perched in his seat, Celia could have *sworn* he was *human*.  
He was eager to please, for an abused creature. Maybe his rehabilitation wouldn't be such a terrible chore after all. Celia went back to her cooking, glimpsing at her newest charge every now and again.  
Just what *was* he?

~

_That was close,_ Kurt thought. _Got to be more careful._  
It had been luck more than timing that had made him take up a more animalistic posture when she nearly caught him washing his hands. Something in that encounter told him that being clean *and* careful may well be more trouble than anything he'd ever encountered before.  
But should he fear Sir? Or hope that he'd found Heaven?  
He wished someone would give him some kind of hint.  
The man who had driven Karl back in the car and taken Sir away poked his head into the trailer, making Kurt jump.  
"You must be getting better, Cee. I could smell that cooking clear on the other side of the camp." He let himself in. "And you've cleaned up."  
"Not I, said the fox," said Maybe-Mama. "Someone let themselves in and did the saintly thing, I guess. They even cleaned out the fridge."  
The man's eyes found him. Kurt instinctively backed away, even though there wasn't much 'away' to back into. "Still haven't found a place for our new friend?"  
"I told you. I fell asleep, Seth. I barely have the energy to cook. Finding a cage for the night and setting it up's just too damn much effort, right now."  
"And so's cleaning 'little presents' out of random corners, Cee."  
Maybe-Mama gave off stirring for a while. "That's the really weird thing..." and then her hands moved in a peculiar ballet.  
Kurt's hands twitched in sympathy, trying to understand. He looked down at his hand. Not enough fingers, anyway.  
Seth seemed surprised, and replied in kind.  
They were talking. With their hands. Did they know he could understand? Or were they just guessing?

"[I think he knows how to use the toilet,]" Celia signed.  
And he thought he'd seen everything he *could* see in the circus. He glanced at the creature. "[You're certain?]"  
"[I heard it flushing... and caught him washing his hands. Or front paws. Whatever. Look at him,]" she briefly did so. "[He's smart. He's already figured out *what* we're doing, even if he can't understand what we're saying.]"  
Seth considered the creature watching them. The intense, too-human gaze coupled with a posture that was pure animal. It gave him chills. "[If he's smart as you say he is, then we'd *better* make friends with him.]" He forced himself to stay calm as he approached Demon. "It's all right, now," he cooed. "I'm a friend."  
Demon was wary, sniffing but not touching.  
"Not too certain, is he?"  
"I don't know," Celia went back to her cooking. "He took to me like a duck to water. Maybe he doesn't like men."  
"Wouldn't be the first time," Seth sighed. He'd taught Celia everything an animal handler needed to know, and a few nasty tricks that every *good* handler needed to know *about* so as to avoid them... and how to regain the trust of some poor, abused creature that had fallen victim to them.  
"Hah," he smiled, spotting the brush. "He might not let *me* touch him... but I've never met a creature that didn't like to be groomed." Slowly, cautiously, he approached Demon with the brush. "There, now. I'm just going to brush your fur. I'm *good* people."  
Demon froze, watching the brush descend.  
"There. See? No bad things..." Three more sweeps and Demon was beginning to relax. A further dozen and he was leaning into each stroke. Seth even managed to earn a tentative purr. And a small mound of shed fuzz on the furniture. "There," he laughed. "I also just volunteered to dust-bust, didn't I?"  
Celia looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Oh, hell yeah. You're dust-busting and a *half*."  
Demon flexed itchy spots into the path of the brush and Seth risked giving one a scratch. Just more contented purring. Good. He was getting hair all over himself, but that was just one of the hazards that came with handling animals.  
He reached the much-abused shorts, easing them down, and the amenable purr just instantly switched to a menacing growl. A mere instant later, Demon was cowering from him behind Celia's legs.  
"Ack! What *happened*?"  
Seth signed to her, "[Since when do animals have 'no go' zones?]"  
"Only when they've been badly injured," said Celia. "And he's not. I checked him over, first thing."  
"Never saying you didn't." Seth found the dust-buster and began getting the drifts of blue fur. "Whoever knew the old man had so much blood in him?"  
"Pup," said Celia.  
"Eh?"  
"Pup. Or whelp. Or kitten. Our blue friend, here, hasn't finished growing. Just look at his paws."  
"And I thought he was impressive *now*..."

Impressive? *Him*?  
Kurt became curious enough to not be afraid of this Seth any more. There hadn't been punishment for running away. Just quiet words and calm discussion of the facts. That... never happened with Sir and Karl.  
Maybe-Mama knelt down and petted him, moving his face closer to hers. "Okay, Demon. Let's see what you've got in there." And, very carefully, opened his mouth. "Huh. Omnivore with carnivorous overtones. And very well-kept teeth. Not a cavity in sight."  
"That's weird." Seth came close, but didn't touch. "Never seen any creature that didn't have at least one thing wrong with their mouth. Especially from someone like the Wagners. These are *beautiful* teeth... I half-expected a mouth full of rot."  
Maybe-Mama removed her fingers. "Something's rotten in the state of Michigan, Seth. This whole situation just... doesn't *fit*."  
Kurt shook his head as she stood. Did they know? Was he in trouble? Was Sir going to come back?  
Seth, too, stood. "I know. You can *see* he's been malnourished, but he's also *clean*."  
"You can feel the old breaks in some of his bones," added Maybe-Mama, "There's abuse and neglect written all over him... but the progress he's made - just *today*... I don't even think he needs the leash, Seth."  
"One way to find out." Seth didn't give him time to flinch. Just a quick twist and a click and the weight that was so familliar was just - gone. "Humph. Why did they think they needed such a heavy grade? You could just about lead a bear with this stuff. Hardly appropriate."  
"The Wagners don't know the trade," said Maybe-Mama. "That's pretty clear." She sighed. "Don't you just *love* getting puzzles?"  
"I have to say this is my first big one." Seth inhaled. "Mmmm... smells better than ready."  
Kurt's stomach growled. It had evidently found an empty spot and voiced its discontent. Well. Time to act like an animal. He sat up and begged, pawing at Maybe-Mama's leg just a little to remind her he was there.  
She laughed Mama's laugh, and tousled his hair. "Okay. *Fine*. I'll share. My own fault for being a good cook, eh?"  
Dinner was delicious, even though he had to eat it like a creature.  
Hot food. He couldn't remember when he'd last had real hot food. He purred just *chewing*.  
Had to be careful. Had to remember to act more like an animal. Had to.  
Or Sir would come back and take him straight to Hell.

Celia reached down to rub between Demon's shoulderblades. Her hand came back with a collection of hairs. It was *barely* almost spring. Either Demon was shedding early - unlikely - or he was defoliating as a side-effect of the stress he was under. It would likely peter off after Spring turned warm, and the circus was on the road.  
Seth sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Ah. *Lovely*... Now, alas, we have to see to our friend's accomodations."  
"We can't put him with anything else," said Celia. "We have no idea how any other animals are going to react to him. Or vice-versa."  
"We could always move Aslan in with the other girls. It's about time and we have a future to think of."  
"True, but that's a stopgap measure for now. Anything else *would* have to wait until we find out how much money he can make."  
"Which neatly brings up the subject of display," said Seth.  
"He's already nervous and edgy... not exactly the frame of mind *I'd* want before I shoved him in front of a bunch of sticky-fingered grab-a-lots."  
"Limited access, then. Adds to the mystique. We could bill him as the eighth wonder of the world..."  
"Too Barnam," said Celia. "How about... one of a kind?"

It was clean. Sheltered. He had food and water, even though the former was some kind of animal kibble. It only smelled faintly of lion, but had clean, fresh straw layed down.  
It was still a cage.  
And Maybe-Mama had locked him in it.  
Kurt had explored its limitations within a small handful of minutes. After that, his options included pacing, and making himself comfortable with what he had.  
After all, he deserved little better.  
He'd killed Mama.  
Maybe this was a pennance of sorts. Purgatory, before he got properly into heaven. But that left the question of why Mama was in purgatory, still recovering from the illness that killed her. What sin demanded that of her, when she hadn't even been *able* to sin in those last, agonizing months?  
_Oh..._  
That was his fault, too. He hadn't prayed enough for the respite of her soul. And now she was stuck here because he was with her.  
No wonder she locked him up.  
Kurt gave off pacing and scratched the straw together. Half to sleep on and half to cover him against the chill of the night. He still had his rosary and locket. Which bought up an interesting question - did God accept prayers from those trapped in Purgatory?  
Kurt decided to try, at the very least.  
There was no sin in *trying* to be good.  
He hid his praying under the straw. _Forgive me, father, for I am sin..._

Celia made her rounds. In her case, that meant supervising her staff. All of them, despite animal liberationist complaints to the contrary, loved animals. She wouldn't hire anyone who didn't, for the simple fact that one had to *care* in order to make sure that said animals were actually cared *for*.  
Thus, it was natural for them to continue better than standard maintenance work on the various animals, even in her absence. Her rounds mostly involved checking up on the creatures in her care, making sure nobody had any alarming news or concerns, keeping track of who was using what medication on which creature and why, and miscellaneous chitchat that mostly involved concerns for her health.  
Celia had delegated a lot in her personal war on cancer, leaving her with one, brand-new charge.  
Demon.  
At first glance, it looked like he'd found a way to escape... until she looked closer at the pile of straw in the middle of the floor. There was a tuft of indigo at one end, and a few hints of cerulean blue peeking out at the other end.  
Okay...  
They had a *burrowing* critter with catlike qualities, some doglike behaviours, and some supremely interesting physiognomy. And an apparent dislike for carnivore kibble.  
Well. Since he was asleep, that meant summoning the troop vet to look him over here, instead of over at his workplace.  
Celia sighed, preparing to troop over to Jon's trailer, only to discover that one of her loyal underlings had summoned him already. Jon had his tranq gun and kit all ready and waiting.  
"Walking's *supposed* to be good for me, you know," she drawled.  
"Say that to the seeming hundreds who say you look exhausted after every walk," Jon grinned. He was the veterinary equivalent of Doogie Howser. No matter what he did, he looked painfully young.  
"I *am* exhausted after every walk," she said. "It's just that I need to keep doing it in order to get *over* being exhausted. Who tattled, Jon? Was it Jaime?"  
Jaime worked as the strong man, and had a unique way of being a mother hen to anyone smaller than him. Considering that Jaime stood at slightly over six foot seven, that included just about everyone in the troop.  
Hell, Jaime had spared the troop the expense of a wheelchair in Celia's worse moments, carrying her around on an adapted swing like some bizarre drag queen with a handbag. It had been one of the few things that made her laugh.  
"Naw. Jaime's officially scared of your wrath, now. It was Betty."  
Celia rolled her eyes. "Oh *God*... *Betty*..." Known publically as the tattooed spectacular, Betty was almost as bad as Jaime when it came to mothering everyone. Plus, she had absolutely no fear of any wrath that anyone might engineer. "If you see her before I do, could you tell her she doesn't have to worry until I'm turning ghost-white and leaning on things?"  
Jon put his kit down on the steps, readying the tranq. It was a supreme irony to wake an animal, only to put it to sleep again. It was also a vital necessity with unknown factors *and* ordinarily wild animals. Teeth and claws, weilded in a moment of confusion, had been the source of many a hospitalization... and even deaths. It was far better to have the animal in a state where it could not lash out.  
"Demon..." Celia called. She added a few clicks of her tongue.  
Demon surfaced from the straw. Groggy, he stretched.  
{Papht!} The dart hit him square in the upper thigh.  
Demon yawped and ran, even going up the side of the bars until he slowed. Slipped down to the floor, and fell slack and panting on the bare boards.  
"Wow," said Jon. "What in heck *is* he?"  
"That's what I'm hoping your check-up will help uncover." Celia unlocked the cage, leaving the door open for Jon. She rolled Demon into a better position and checked his pulse and breathing.  
Then she saw it.  
Demon now had a rosary wrapped around the 'wrist' of his left forepaw.  
She lifted the limb in question. "Where in hell did *this* come from?"  
"Picked it up from the ground?" suggested Jon. "Got himself tangled in it?" He snapped on his gloves and checked Demon's teeth. "Good *lord*..."  
"I know. They're *perfect*."  
"And weird. Our pal has some interesting teeth in here. They're almost human. I'm going to have to talk to our dentist and borrow some of his gear for a cast..." He peeled an eye, checking the pupils. "Safely out of it. Good." He felt the neck. "What the--?"  
"Something wrong?"  
"Yeah. This 'animal' has the vertibrae of an upright primate."  
"Huh?"  
Jon directed her hands. One at Demon's neck, and the other at his own. "Feel the difference?"  
"No...?"  
"That's my point. Before today, I could have sworn there was only one species on Earth with that bone structure. This guy's arranged to walk upright. Just like us."  
Those last three words gave her goosebumps. Celia let go. "Is he... *human*?"  
"Opposable thumb. Vertebrae..." Jon moved down and manipulated Demon's hips. "Pelvic arrangement... He's put together a hell of a lot like us. And Seth told me about the shorts..."  
"But he walks around on all fours without discomfort."  
"And he has digigrade legs," noted Jon. "The tail's a puzzle, too." He picked it up and fiddled with the spade. "Given the range of possible motion, I wouldn't be suprised if this whole thing is prehensile."  
"And when was the last time a human had a prehensile tail?"  
"Point, but you have to admit our friend's pretty unique. We have to tread carefully. *Very* carefully. For all we know, he's faking at being dumb. That could lead to some serious retribution down the line."  
"And in the meantime, we have to pay his fees to that ass, Wagner," Celia grumbled, unwinding the rosary from Demon's wrist. "We *have* to put him into some kind of show." Demon's paw/hand twitched as she removed the rosary. "Meantime, I can keep this safe in case someone comes looking for it."  
"Our best bet's showing him in the cage for the customers, and keeping him in a trailer. Maybe yours?"  
"I have a spare bunk," Celia said. "We could get a toothbrush for him, and I get to practice selective blindness to whatever 'human' things he does."  
"Trouble?" guessed Jon.  
"He was *abused*, Jon. The Wagners... they should never get him back. No matter what it costs."  
Jon, too, had felt the healed breaks. He knew the signs as well as Celia did. "Agreed. And I'll write up whatever bullshit excuse we need when the time comes."  
She breathed a lot easier at that.

Kurt woke up. There wasn't straw any more, but a warm blanket. A pillow. A *bed*.  
And he'd lost Mama's rosary.  
Was it a sign? Was God telling him his prayers were useless? Or was it a test?  
He pulled aside the door that concealed his resting place, looking around. Nobody nearby, but it smelled like someone was cooking.  
"My ass you don't need looking after, Cee," someone was saying in the next room. "And don't give me no bullshit about only needing help when you're milk-white and leaning on things. You *are* milk white. *And* you're leaning on things. Therefore you need help, sweetie."  
"Betty..."  
"Nope. Whatever you're gonna say, it ain't gonna work. You've stressed yourself out and you need your rest and *I* am cooking my famous build-your-bones kludge for you and your critter. Now drink your milk and take your goddamn pills."  
Mama sighed. "Yes, Betty."  
Kurt slunk from his hiding place and sought out the bathroom. After seeking and finding some blessed relief, he was sorely tempted by the shower stall. Surely, they wouldn't hear the water running... if he was *quick*...  
He dropped his pants and turned on the water. The shampoo bottle was both large and heavy.  
_Blessed Father, please forgive this act of theft. I'll labor to my utmost to pay it back, somehow. But I have need now, so please... don't punish me?_  
The water was lovely. The shampoo was *exactly* what he needed. He even took the time to scrub himself thoroughly. Help rid himself of the fuzz that went everywhere and gave Mama more work to do when she was already sick.  
There was a brand new toothbrush and some toothpaste on the counter. In a little box with 'Demon' written on it in marker.  
A test? A gift? What were these people *up* to?  
Kurt wrapped the towel around his waist and allowed himself the temptation of keeping himself clean. It felt so good to be clean... and it was almost his undoing.  
Behind him, the door opened a crack. A hand sneaked through, reaching for his shorts.

Betty smirked at the sound of the shower running. "Well, looks like we're right about our not-so-little friend."  
"What scares *me* is how easily he passes for an animal," Celia shuddered. "More ignorant people would have had him in a cage for the rest of his life."  
"All the same, he deserves clean clothes that actually fit him." Betty sniffed judiciously at her concoction and put it on to simmer. "You still got 'em?"  
Celia fumbled around. "Er..."  
There was a small hunt for the bag, then some fumbling over what to leave in return for the threadbare shorts. Then they had to creep up to the diminutive bathroom, holding their collective breaths, because the shower had stopped.  
Celia took the lead, owing to the fact that there was only really room for one person in there, anyway, but Betty hovered close behind. She opened the door *just* enough to spot the shorts. She could almost reach them. Almost...  
A sudden growl and a snarl, and Demon landed solidly on the maligned fabric, almost knocking it out of her grasp. Toothpaste foam spattered about his mouth and leaked in dribbles to the tiles.  
And just as suddenly as he started, he recognized her and stopped. He did not, however, move from his perch on his old excuse for clothing.  
"I'm not stealing," said Celia, valiantly concealing her initial fear at his display. "See?" She gestured with the new pants and the clean underwear, both adapted with his tail in mind. "We got you some new clothes to wear."  
She'd never forget the look in his eyes as long as she lived. Desperately afraid, dreadfully needy, and frighteningly close to the line between normalicy and insanity... all at once.  
His grip tightened on the pants underneath him. All five limbs at once.  
Celia maintained her grip, a gentle one. "They're going to fall apart, soon."  
Shaking, Demon closed his eyes. He was breathing strangely.  
"What's so important, hm? Why do you need these shorts?"  
A solid sob. He was *crying*. "...mama..." he said in a voice so soft she could barely hear him. "...treasure..."  
Celia let go, so stunned that she sat solidly on the floor.  
"Hon?" Betty prompted. "You okay?"  
"You know the rosary I found? Can you fetch it for me, please?"  
Betty didn't fight or bother asking why. She knew this was serious business and just hustled to get what was needed. It took her less than a minute to return with the circle of beads, but listening to Demon on the other side of the door, weeping bitterly... it felt like an eternity.  
Celia looped the beads into her hand and presented it through the gap in the door. "These were yours all the time, weren't they?"  
He stared in shock at them. Then his tail actually scooped up the looped rosary, coiling around it and hiding it close to his heart.  
"Whoah," she whispered. Feeling that flexible spade rub - however briefly - across her palm had been an experience in and of itself.  
His fisted hands flexed in the overworn garment he'd arrived in. He was still deciding.  
"Demon," she whispered. Her hands reached for the scarf on her head.  
His half-mad eyes focussed on her.  
She took the scarf off.  
Celia might as well have shot him, he looked so shocked.  
The fabric of the decrepit pants ripped asunder in his hands. There was a brief flurry of desperate activity. And then... wonder of wonders, he crept forward.  
His hand felt like velvet across her naked scalp.  
"...oh, mama..."  
And there was a weight around her neck. A locket on a chain. Celia opened it, turning it around so she could see the contents properly.  
The woman's face was almost her exact double. There was a spiral coil of auburn hair in the other side. Immaculately preserved under a shell of glass.  
A mourning locket. A reliquary as sacred to him as anything could be to any other human soul. The fact that it survived, unmarred, unscarred and unsullied when Demon himself was clearly in the ruinous hands of the Wagners was proof of that.  
She gave him dignity in the form of clothes made to fit him.  
Celia prayed it was a start.

He looped the rosary back around his wrist, cleaning up any mess in a sort of automated fuge.  
Of course Mama would give him new clothes. She was *Mama*. And it was only fair that she got a little bit of her hair back. If only to remind her what it was like to have some.  
But Sir was going to be coming, now, for sure.  
Sir was coming.  
He'd broken the rules, and that meant punishment.  
Kurt shook. He was too terrified to risk talking again... and yet he had to warn Mama.  
What could he do?  
What could he *do*?  
He couldn't stay in here. That was for certain. He had to do *something*. Perhaps... maybe... Sir would believe it if he just kept acting like an animal? It had taken a long time to get here. Maybe Sir wouldn't even bother.  
Maybe... if he was good.  
Thus, when he emerged, he did so on all fours. Sniffing at things at random. Watching the world with wary eyes.  
Mama had her scarf back on, but held the locket in her hand. She and the other woman - Betty - stopped talking the instant he showed himself. It was that singular women's way of talking that stopped dead at the merest hint of an interloper... that watched the intruder pass like cats and refused to start again until they were well out of earshot.  
Kurt almost appologized out loud for interrupting their conversation. He changed it instead to an enquiring purr.  
Mama looked - wounded.  
"It's okay, sweetheart," she soothed. "You can be yourself with us."  
He padded over to her and squirmed his front half into her lap, nuzzling for a scratch.  
"Oh yeah," said Betty. "Worked over *big* time. Poor soul."  
Mama's fingers worked at his scalp. "I just want him to get better..."  
"Can't wait for next week," said Betty. "On the road at last. The hell away from those assholes that did this to him."  
"I still feel sick about showing him off like..."  
"Like me?"  
"I didn't mean--"  
"I know, pet. I *know*. Look at it like this... What *options* are there?"

It was only a handful of days intil the initial move. A small number, really, that could be counted on one hand. It was a handful of days loaded with hustle and bustle, making sure stocks were stocked - including a large supply of Celia's own medication, since distant towns sometimes had a problem with filling out her prescriptions - new costumes, rigging pieces, fresh rope... and, in short, that all the minutia and mundanities were taken care of.  
She barely had time to be worried about Demon.  
The poor boy had gone completely animalistic after he had spoken. Living his role to the hilt, as it were.  
But Celia would never forget those words or the heartbreak in them.  
He could *speak*.  
He was smart enough to know *when* he could speak, which meant that he was smarter than he was letting on. Which meant that her saintly organiser and covert housecleaner might just be *him*.  
Celia was always careful to lend him as much dignity as she could. Clean clothes every day, including the option for wearing a shirt - which he had yet to take. Time to be alone to pursue hygene. A knife and fork beside his dish at the table. A blanket lovingly tucked around him when he was sound asleep.  
None of it seemed to make any impact.  
Even on days when she 'forgot' the leash, he trotted beside her, as obedient as any dog.  
Once, she took the collar off when he was napping. A sign, she hoped, that he was welcome to be himself with her. Demon just found it and bought it to her in his mouth.  
It had taken all her effort not to cry when she put it back on.  
He'd been extra affectionate, that day, as if appologising for her mood and being the cause of it.  
Her fault, for pushing it.  
At long last, the day came to go on their long tour. Owing to her health, Betty drove, which lent Celia the relative freedom of relaxation in the trailer with Demon.  
She didn't miss spotting the Wagners glaring at them from outside the campgrounds. Nor did she miss the way Demon saw them and promptly ducked out of sight, hiding under the furniture and whimpering.  
Celia waved them a cheery farewell and breathed easier. Away from those two for the most part of a year. It seemed like paradise. One she hoped she could share with her young friend.  
It took an hour and a specially-made portion of casserole to coax him out of his hiding place.

~

"Well, *fuck*..." Karl muttered. "Didn't see the freak anywhere."  
"For all your school learning, you get some dumb ideas, boy."  
"We got money, don't we?"  
"We might have money, but the house is a freakin' *sty*, boy! What in hell are we supposed to do 'bout that?"  
Karl knew better than to suggest hiring a maid. Sass like that could have an ear ringing for the rest of the day with Dad's clublike blows. "C'mon, Dad... we got rid of the freak and someone's paying for it. So there's a few little snags. We can find ways around it?"  
"Like *what*?" One meaty hand balled into a fist.  
"Like..." _...fuck..._ "Doing stuff ourselves?"  
Ow. That hurt. Karl blinked at the ant just in front of his eye. Getting up, or even trying to, was a mistake. Staying down was the smarter thing to do.  
"I'm not cleaning up after your mess, *boy*," Dad announced. "I got more important things to do with my time."  
Traslated, Karl was now the new house slave. He risked sitting up. Ow. "Wha' 'bout school?" he slurred. Damn. Another concussion. "Y'r always sayin' I gotta go t' school."  
"Then go to school. And ev'ry other hour... you're *mine*."  
Dad was right. Selling off the freak was the worst idea he'd ever had.

The first stop. Celia's nerves had her in performance-night jitters, even though she couldn't actually *perform*. Not while she was still recovering her health. What happened instead was a cloud of nervous activity that encapsulated all the animal acts.  
Except the one that she didn't want to face.  
Demon padded loyally by her side... if that really *was* his name. Celia personally doubted that the Wagners she met would have called him anything else, but...  
*Someone* had to care for him when he was younger. There was no way he could survive to the present day without some form of solid nurturing. And given his fixation with 'Mama'...  
Celia's imagination filled in a battle between an abusive husband and an ill wife, one that was won and lost with the same result.  
Demon wouldn't be so confused about things if Mama was still alive.  
Celia had completely stopped calling him 'Demon' out loud. It was terms of endearment, only, or 'our friend' when talking about him to a third party.  
It hadn't made any more impact than any loaned dignity she gave him.  
Someday, she was going to make progress with him. Real progress that didn't involve a complete retreat like this.  
He'd spoken to her once. A grand total of four individual words. Two of them had been 'Mama'.  
He'd spoken once.  
He could speak again.  
Just... not today.  
Demon followed her into the cage, reminding her too much of cattle that followed a goat to their deaths.  
_Ease up, Cee. He's going to stay alive if the whole circus has to stand between him and danger._  
But all the same...  
Celia knelt and held him, sobbing into his fur. "I'm sorry as all hell to do this to you, darling."  
Demon purred for her and nuzzled against her.  
She felt sick to her stomach when she closed him in there.

It was actually relaxing in the cage. Mama was close and he didn't have to fret about accidentally doing something 'too human' and thus summoning Sir to wreak retribution. It was comfortingly dim, reminding him of early-morning twilight. The time of day when he had the peace to do what needed to be done without the rest of his family barking at him to complete the tasks that could, essentially, wait.  
They'd outfitted the cage with toys, this time. Things with which he could entertain himself - but nothing that was unexpected in an animal cage. It was a mystery to *him* where they found half a tree, but it was something to climb. And the almost-obligatory tire swing held... possibilities.  
All he had to do, as far as he understood things, was maintain his act and otherwise enjoy himself while people gawked.  
Child's play.  
In a way, it was a relaxing holiday from what he'd had to do at home.

One tent was making an absolute killing. People would go out of idle curiosity. Some would read the list of cautions on the outside and walk on by, then later return - wondering what the heck was worth all the fuss and bother. All would later come back, bringing relatives and friends to see.  
Each who visited bought a small handful with them on the return trip.  
The troop had to use some of the roadies as muscle to keep the tent from being overcrowded.  
Celia watched him carefully, searching for any bad signs. It gave her something to do other than listen to the comments made by the gawkers.  
_They're paying gawkers, Cee. We need the money. You can be sick to your stomach, *later*. What matters is now._  
"There goes the 'shaved monkey' theory," said one of them.  
Celia pretended to read her book. Most people who came through never even saw her. They were too busy staring at Demon.  
"So what *is* it?" said another.  
_He,_ Celia corrected inwardly.  
Demon had put his head and shoulders through the tire swing and, propping himself up on his elbows, was idly swinging back and forth, propelling himself with his feet.  
"Blue?" guessed the first speaker. "How the fuck should *I* know?"  
"It's incredible."  
_*He* is incredible,_ thought Celia.  
He was getting faster on the swing, building up impetus. Celia found herself flinching whenever his head drew close to the ceiling of the cage.  
Then, without warning, he latched onto the bars behind him with his toes. He left just enough time for that to make an impact before shrugging out of the tire and gripping the bars with his hands.  
The observing crowd went *nuts*, gasping and yawping in surprise.  
Demon clambered around the bars for a little, allowing everyone to get used to the idea, then he climbed up and clung to the flat ceiling, then down the bars close to her.  
He was wearing the biggest shit-eating grin she'd ever seen.  
"You magnificent little show-off..." Celia whispered. She had to rise and ruffle his hair, feeding him a sweet from the supply she had in her pockets.  
The audience applauded, giving him an excuse to trot victoriously around the cage.  
He *was* incredible. An incredible enigma.  
Demon bumped the ball, possibly on purpose, and used it as an excuse for kitten-play with the thing, attacking and defending himself... and, just once, bopping himself in the face to make the audience laugh.  
_You're loving every minute of the attention,_ thought Celia. _Look at you. Hamming it up just to feel the love._  
And the most heartbreaking thing was that she could *see* how limited he was by his arena. Demon was clearly meant to fly, what with that natural grace and flair, the speed and fluidity of motion. He was magnificent. Marvellous. In his element... and yet too restrained. Like a big fish in a little pond.  
He needed more room.  
Celia wanted to give him a world's worth, lend him the freedom of the sky and all the space he could take; but she knew he wouldn't go much further than eyeshot of her. Nor would he, given everyone else's rights, take them properly.  
She needed to take it slowly, using his own actions as a prompt for what she could actually *do* with him. For him.  
Betty dropped by with refreshments. "Seth says you're effecting the main show's ticket sales," she whispered. "The exact quote was, 'ask her where the hell my audience has gone'."  
And given the number of roadies doing the move-along routine... "Tell him I said, 'oops'."  
"Oh, he's gonna love *that*."  
Celia rearranged her burden. "Go on out front and tell Kyle to put up a 'gone for lunch' sign. Clearing out the tent's going to be trouble, but we have enough big burly men."  
"For which we are thankful," said Betty with mock piety. She waved a cheery goodbye.  
Celia made sure the gawking crowds were gone before she opened up the cage and offered demon his share of food.  
He still ate like an animal, even when it was just him and her.  
"I know you're in there," she whispered. "I can only guess how scared you are, honey... just... please... you can be yourself with me."  
He groomed sauce off his face like a cat. Sort of. No cat on the planet concealed a shaking head in such movements.  
Celia didn't feel much like food. Even eating enough to keep her going made her feel ill. She gave the rest to Demon, who always ate eagerly.  
_"Demon"..._  
His beloved 'Mama' had to have given him a proper name. Celia was willing to bet her life that she never called him 'Demon'. *But*, since she looked so much like the deceased woman, so much so that he was clearly disturbed and confused by the resemblance, she couldn't up and ask him what it was.  
Even though the revelation was inevitable, what with her natural hair colour being uck-mud brown, Celia daren't break that illusion. She was certain it was one of the few things that he actually *had*. Taking that away... breaking him when he was already broken... It was worse than showing him like the animal he pretended to be.  
"You're not an animal," she whispered, holding him tight. "You're *not* a demon. You're one of a kind, and that makes you special beyond belief." A kiss, gentle and motherly on his brow. "All I want you to do is let us *help* you."  
He nuzzled against her, purring, and lovingly groomed a spot of sauce off her jaw.  
She wanted to scream in pure outrage against what had been done to him, yet couldn't.  
It wouldn't help.

The money was good. Both he and Dad agreed on that. It paid for a great many luxuries. Unfortunately, it didn't - or wouldn't - pay for the take-out containers to go to the trash, nor for the clothes to get washed, nor for the dishes to get cleaned.  
That was his job, now.  
At least Dad didn't make him wear that fucking collar and chain.  
No, *he* got the beating of a lifetime if he screwed up.  
Karl couldn't ask, "What did your last slave die of?" because they'd rented their last slave out. And before that...  
He hated himself for feeling sad about Mama Wagner. He'd... *liked* being with her. She made him feel better about himself. Taught him things. Defended him from Dad - sometimes at her own expense.  
He'd been happy with Mama Wagner. Even with the freak in her shadow and, later, trailing after him like a bad smell. They'd been... better times. Softer times.  
He was hard, now. You didn't keep pain - that had been why Mama Wagner had *really* fallen ill - you passed it on to the first sucker you could get. *That* was what made you better.  
Dad beat up on him... so he beat up on those smaller and weaker than him. They, in turn, would find someone lower on the food chain, but Karl didn't care about that.  
It was the way the world worked. You either sucked it up, or you got more.  
...and speaking of more...  
Dad was getting stingy with the money. Restricting what they could get and, specifically, what *he* could get.  
"Hey. Dad?"  
"You take out the trash?"  
Always, the Spanish fucking Inquisition... "Yes, Dad," he said in a tired monotone.  
"Done th' laundry?"  
"Yes, Dad."  
"Dishes clean?"  
"Yes, Dad."  
"House clean?"  
"Yes, Dad."  
"Homework done?"  
_Gotta love this guy's priorities..._ "Yes, Dad."  
"So what the fuck *you* want?"  
"Y'know that cheque from the circus people?"  
"Anh?"  
"How do *we* know they're not scamming us?"  
Dad got that _Oh holy *fuck*_ expression of a professional scam artist caught wondering if he could really trust people.  
Karl did his best not to smirk. "You know those circus types," he said. "They're all gypsies and stuff. Take you for every dime they can get... legal contract or not."  
Dad rumbled and stalked into his office. Karl was never to go in there, but he lingered outside the door to watch the man's expression change as he went through the paperwork that had accumulated in there.  
Watching Dad cook books was something of a treat. And it was an even better treat, now, because he'd finally figured out a way to stick it to the predator. To torture Dad like Dad tortured him.  
Ha.  
Even if he was black and blue, tomorrow, it would be worth it. Just for that look on Dad's face.

They'd borrowed the cage for the lion act, and set it up with some of the more interesting low rigging and a portion of a roof. They'd had to improvise with the tent, as well, making sure it was sealed off from people trying to get a free peek - or a picture for some tabloid somewhere.  
Later, when he was better, the last thing he would need would be some glorified, gory reminder of his animalistic past. He wouldn't need to have his nose rubbed in it.  
Of course, borrowing the lion cage meant that his act had to stop a full quarter-hour before the performance. And, since there were outsiders around, that meant attatching Demon to a leash. It was a slim thing, barely strong enough to hold him if he decided to run - not that Celia thought he'd try something like that - but it still made her wince to put it on him.  
He always purred and rubbed up against her, nontheless.  
If only she was so good at keeping up the charade.  
Celia lead him out into the 'backstage' area of the circus, a place where outsiders were less likely to go. And few of them would have cameras close enough to hand to catch a reliable picture. All the same, between the tent and her trailer, she was paranoid. Scanning for anyone with any kind of equipment between him and their face.  
She was bought up short by the unexpected sensation of Demon dragging on his leash.  
"Sweetie?"  
He'd frozen in place, staring... towards the admin trailer.  
Celia had to squint to make out the shape of Wagner. The body-speak of Wagner the elder wasn't the nicest of stuff. Seth was remaining cool, and some of the roadies were starting to close in. She gently rubbed Demon's ear to calm him. "It's okay, honey. He's far, far away. He can't hurt you."  
"I can."  
It was mini-sleaze. He was playing with his knife, trying to create an air of slow menace. Too bad for him her heart had already jumped the gun. However, since she couldn't allow him the pleasure of seeing her scared, Celia used every atom of acting skill to appear unimpressed.  
She focussed on the half-healed bruise on his face. It was clear evidence that he was a minor player in the menacing stakes. There was someone bigger and meaner who had got a shot in.  
Demon, unfortunately, reacted out of fear and hid behind her.  
"What do *you* want?" she said, distain clear in her voice.  
Mini-sleaze recalculated. He was a nasty one. Given a few years, he'd be the sort of slime that played head-games with their chosen victim as well as enacting careful physical torture. The sort that never showed up in public arenas. "You keep him on *that* thin a leash?" he said, pretending shock and surprise. As if his initial threat had never happened. And -hey- there were no other witnesses, so she had no proof of what he said. "Don't you know he's a killer?"  
Pressed up against her calves, Demon finched.  
"I've seen no signs of a violent nature," she said.  
"Yeah. That's just his way. Sweet as anything to you until you let down your guard? And then, when you least expect it-- you're dead and it's his fault. That's what happened to Mom."  
Demon was very, very still at that one.  
"Really?" she maintained her cool. Ah. Jaime was looking their way, trying. "So it would be in the newspapers. Where did this happen?"  
Caught out, mini-sleaze fumbled. "Don't matter. The important thing is that he has the taste for human blood. He'll want more. Best to lock him up and throw away the key."  
Jaime was in earshot, now. "I'll keep that in mind," she said neutrally. "In the meantime, it'd be healthier for you to stay in the more public areas of the circus. Or with your father. We can't be responsible for your safety, back here."  
Which was codespeak for, "Jaime, escort this loser to the perimiter."  
Mini-sleaze actually flinched when a hand, easily as large as his head, plopped delicately onto his shoulder.  
"Our safety regulations prevent you roaming loose in this area, sir," said Jaime in his calm-and-reasonable voice. Few could resist Jaime when he was being calm and reasonable. And if they tried, he'd just pick them up and carry them safely beyond the borders of the circus' grounds.  
Mini-sleaze casually flicked the blade of his knife away. "Sure, mister," he greased. "I can see why, what with all these dangerous animals running around loose."  
Demon was sitting very still, golden eyes closed, and concentrating on his breathing. Celia actually had to pick him up and carry him for the short journey to their trailer. The minute he was safe inside, the hysterical reaction began. Shivering, low noises of pain, and sobs that threatened to choke him.  
All she could do was keep him warm and comfort him.

The encounter with Wagner the younger threw him off. She could practically taste his nervousness in the air as he performed in the cage. There was more hesitation. Less spontaneity.  
Oh, sure, he wowed the gawking crowds like a true performer, but Celia knew there was effort in maintaining the act. And there was fear, too, that the act would slip, somehow. He was self-conscious, and that almost made him awkward.  
The unknowing crowd would accept the lie that he was a young animal, and her passing off his clumsiness in this showing as a kittenish lack of co-ordination due to being in a state of growth.  
Most would understand. Some, however... had no idea what came with taming an animal. They seemed to believe that any creature in a show was some kind of preprogrammed living robot that could be made to perform on demand.  
"Make it do that thing with the ceiling," said a visitor. "That was cool. The wife an' kids wanna see it."  
"Sir, he's still in early training," Celia explained. "I can only reward good behaviour... I can't 'make' him do anything he doesn't want to."  
"I'll make 'im jump," volunteered another visitor.  
Celia barely had time to register the speaker as mini-sleaze before a half-cup of soda went arcing straight towards the cage.  
Demon simply leaped out of the way. He never got a drop on him.  
The roadies were closing in, but not before the damage was done. Mini-sleaze had pockets full of rocks, which he began hucking at the cage. Other kids joined in, flinging anything they could.  
"Get these people *out* of here," Celia yelled. "Close the tent! Hurry!" This was the last thing she wanted, damnit. Her cane came in handy, incapacitating Wagner the younger by the simple expedient of cracking his arms and legs with its sturdy length.  
The sleaze succeeded in stealing her scarf off her head.  
And the Demon *howled*.  
There was no real word for the bone-chilling, bowel-stirring, hackle-raising and ungodly noise that rose from the occupant of the cage; but 'howl' was the closest approximation.  
It was a noise that came from the dawn of time's *nightmares*.  
Half the kids still present in the melee ran for their lives. The others, restrained by the roadies, retalliated with their own screams.  
Wagner went deadly pale, evidently as shocked as anyone else that Demon was capable of such a sound. All the fight went out of him, allowing her and two other members of the troop to pin him to the earth.  
"I told you," he said. Plenty loud enough for the other kids to hear. "That thing's a *killer*!"  
Celia managed to tug her scarf from his hand and cover herself anew. "Congratulations," she panted. "We can press charges against you, now. You're going to *Juvie*."  
Mini-sleaze snorted. "I'll be out in less than a week."  
_And by then, I pray, we will have passed beyond your sphere of influence._  
Of course, by the time the wreckage was mopped up, it was not only time for the evening performance, but Celia was exhausted and weak. There was, after all, so much that sheer adrenoline could do... and it had already done it when facing down that little sleeze. She couldn't even verbally fight off Jaime when he scooped her up in one arm and delicately took Demon's leash between the finger and thumb of the other hand. Ashamed though she was to admit it, Celia was glad of the lift.  
Judging by the look on Jaime's face, she must have looked like absolute *shit*.  
He put her in the comfy chair, piling her with pillows and tucking a blanket around her. "I'll fetch Betty," he said. "You need help."  
Great. Two mother hens. At least Betty was a qualified nurse, and could summon whichever doctor was servicing the region in the event of an emergency.  
Celia drowsed in her chair. Just the light, resting-my-eyes kind of drowsing. Between one blink and the next, someone had given her a glass of milk. It had a bendy-straw in it. She could barely lift it to sip some. Blink. The heater was on, pointed to her feet, which were now elevated on a storage bin with a pillow on it.  
Demon's pillow.  
Blink.  
He'd found her fluffy slippers. The nauseatingly bright ones with the legend 'Happy Thoughts!' that had been a gift of the troop on her return from the hospital. Celia only knew it was Demon because, as her eyes flickered open, he was still fitting one on her left foot.  
Blink.  
Someone was rapping on her door.  
"It's unlocked," she called. The blanket moved - pushed about by something under her legs - and Demon poked his head out. Wary.  
It was Betty. "Well. Don't *you* look like death re-fried."  
"It was the workout. That little Wagner asshole made trouble at th' show..." Blink.  
Betty was taking her pulse and checking her temperature with the infra-red ear thingy. {peep} "A little low. Thank God Jaime put the heater on you or you'd be in a chill."  
"Jaime didn't." Blink. "Think it w's Demon."  
"You need iron," Betty decided. "Is there still that lamb's fry?"  
"...dunno..." Blink. A long one. Sizzling and delicious smells revived her in time to see Betty at the stovetop and Demon ankling through her legs like a big cat.  
Thirst made her finish off the milk.  
"Damn, but this recipe wasn't kidding about attracting predators," Betty joked. She checked over her shoulder. "And reviving the dead."  
"Sounds good," she croaked. "Feels like I missed a pill or five."  
"I'll get 'em," Betty volunteered. She picked them out of the array and shook out the correct dosages.  
Behind her, Demon propped himself up on the counter to sniff deeply over the pan. His stomach rumbled and he moaned a little, but he didn't even try to snaffle some of the frying meat.  
In fact, while Betty was fussing over her, Demon picked up the spatula and stirred the meal in progress.  
Celia indicated him with a nod of her head and a motion to be quiet.  
"...well I'll be damned," Betty whispered. "Word's been getting around about him being brighter than he pretends to be, but-- *damn*..."  
Celia resumed her march of the pills. Even at one sip per tablet, half her drink was gone by the time the medicine was. She gulped the rest of it down. Bit by bit, she was coming back to life.  
"If I never see that little shitheel again, it'll be too soon," Celia moaned. "Sabotaging the act, playing psych games... If I wasn't sick..."  
"Well, he's arrested, now. That's at least a few days without him." Betty went back to finishing her cooking. Casually ignoring the fact that someone had been helping. "Now, if we could only do something about his damn *father*..."  
"Amen to that," said Celia. "But I can wait to find out what he was trying to pull on Seth. Hell, I can wait for anything. Waiting is nice. You don't have to *do* anything to wait."  
Demon leaned himself against her lap and purred, rubbing against her hand. He looked - concerned. Worried.  
"It's all right, sweetheart. I'm just very tired."  
That did absolutely nothing to calm him. It was as if... he'd lived through a suffering loved one before.  
Celia rubbed his topmost ear. "I'm getting better," she told him. "I promise. Nobody's getting rid of me in a hurry."

_From her mouth to His ears,_ thought Kurt, enjoying every moment of the ear-rub, despite his upset feelings. _Throw me wherever you like, just please make her better._ He'd lost her once, three years ago. That had been bad enough. Losing her again to the same thing... worse than any evil he'd survived in those intervening years.  
He'd eagerly donate any amount of his own health if he could somehow transfer it to her.  
Kurt had felt exactly like this at age five, when Mama just kept getting worse and worse. He used to crawl in beside her in the night and try to will all his energy into her. He'd pray to get sick, just so Mama could get better. He'd pray for a miracle.  
But the miracle hadn't come.  
He stayed out of the way - even though his stomach pained him - while the guardian angel Betty fed Mama. He watched for even the faintest sign of improvement like a hawk, and only let himself eat when Mama's colour started to come back.  
Kurt stayed by her for every waking minute. He wouldn't leave her alone like last time. He'd stay close. Keep a watchful eye out.  
Sit vigil. For however long it took.  
No matter how tired he got.  
No matter how quiet it was.  
No matter how heavy his eyelids grew...  
Kurt snuffled awake. Mama was gone! Pillows still there, blanket left on the floor, even the pillow under her feet was still on the big plastic box.  
*NO*!  
It wasn't *fair*!  
Mama was *gone*.

~

"Now just relax and--"  
"But our friend..."  
"I'll make sure he gets a nutri-shake and some TLC. Don't *fret*," soothed Betty. "You need to recouperate. And you're *going* to recouperate or else. Got it?"  
"Mama!"  
Betty flinched at the sound of that word. It was hard not to flinch, what with so much pain and anguish and fear squashed into two simple syllables.  
"Told you he talks," Celia smiled in spite of herself. "You better go and get him before he completely freaks out." She blinked. When she opened her eyes again, her world was eclipsed by blue fur. Some of it, close against her face, was wet with hot tears.  
"...mama..." Just loud enough to catch in her ear and no more, but pure relief dripped from each syllable.  
Celia reached up and rubbed his ear, calming him. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Almost thundering with agitation.  
"Go with Betty," she whispered. "She'll take care of you while I rest. Okay?"  
He kissed her. A human kiss. Gentle and soft and warm.  
Blink. It was warm and dark and some DVD was playing in the other room of the trailer. Celia couldn't bother straining her hearing to try and identify it. What mattered was that everything currently *felt* safe. Everything was going to be okay.  
Celia let that thought guide her into a full sleep.

Kurt had arranged himself across Betty so he could see Mama. Every few minutes, no matter what was happening on the TV screen, he would look across the darkness to her bed-nook and watch for her breathing.  
Betty, during this intermittant vigil, would carefully brush his fur and coo that it was going to be okay. That she was going to be just fine in the morning. Watch the movie, eh? It's a good one. Look at all the funny critters. Isn't that one blue like you?  
Kurt would resume his slump across Betty's lap and watch the strange figures on the screen. It was both real and unreal at the same time. It *looked* real enough... but it was obviously unreal at the same time.  
Betty called it 'seegeeyie'. Pictures made by computers.  
Strange creatures... sort-of - yet definitely *not* - like him. Calling themselves monsters, but acting like everyday people.  
There was no such thing as a freak in that strange, made-up world.  
All the same... he didn't *like* the idea of being a monster.  
It had... implications.  
Even if the creatures on the screen were supposed to be *nice* monsters, the very word itself had overtones that Kurt personally abhorred.  
Monster.  
It was just as bad as 'demon' or 'freak'. Or any of the many words that Sir had called him and Karl had teased him ceaselessly with.  
They were words that hurt.  
The brush felt nice, even so. And a full belly helped ease his mood from discomfort to a sort of peace.  
Mama snored.  
Just a little, though. That tiny buzz was the world's most reassuring noise for Kurt. He didn't need to *see* Mama breathe. He could hear it. As natural and reassuring as the warmth of her embrace.  
"Hm. You really *were* worried about her," murmured Betty. "Poor lost soul..." She tucked a blanket around him.  
A lost soul. Yes. That made a world of sense.  
A lost soul trying to find the path into heaven.

Three days passed without a resurgance of the Wagners. Celia knew better than to hope they had gone forever, but she was glad that Demon was back to his show-off self. The poor kid seemed to live from moment to moment, finding joy in whatever small slice he could get.  
"Hey-hey! It's *Kurt*!"  
_What the--?_ Celia turned, trying to find the unfamilliar speaker. At her heels, on his leash, Demon turned, too.  
There was a truck driver heading towards them. His rig, left behind for the roadies to sort out, bore the logo of the delivery company that made sure the circus was fed.  
"Hey, li'l buddy," the trucker cooed, kneeling to ruffle Demon's hair. "You remember uncle Jake-o, doncha?"  
Demon purred, giving the man a welcome usually reserved by cats for allergy sufferers. And pawing at his pockets.  
"Hah! You remember me," Jake grinned up at Celia. "Five seconds and he's lookin' for the doughnut."  
"He eats doughnuts?" _Stupid. He's an omnivore. And so far, he hasn't met a food group he didn't like._  
"My li'l buddy Kurt'll eat *anything*." Jake fished in his pockets and produced the pastry in question.  
Demon - no, *Curt* - sat up and begged.  
Jake chuckled. "Ready, boy?" He carefully balanced the doughnut on Curt's nose. "Man, oh man, am I glad you got 'im now. Those assholes who had 'im before didn't know nothin' 'bout treatin' him right."  
"The Wagners told me his name was Demon."  
"Wagners? *HA*! Is *that* the name they're using this week? Naw. Those two idjits is the Lampreys. Small-time grifters who don't know nothin' 'bout *nothin'*..."  
Curt whimpered. He still had the doughnut on his nose.  
"Okay, *go*!"  
{unk}  
In one swift motion, the doughnut was flipped into the air and snatched into Curt's mouth.  
Jake grinned wide. "Ain't that the darndest thing? He used to beg doughnuts offa me 'bout coupla years back, before they moved. He's real smart, whatever he is. Usedta figure he was some kinda 'coon-ape or somethin'."  
Another begging posture.  
Jake bought out a bag with a sigh of resignation. "There goes the rest of the dozen... Not that I mind. A critter like Kurt's a joy to behold." This time, he just passed the doughnut down.  
{unk} followed by the deep rumble of Curt's purr.  
"Do you know anything about... his care and maintenance?" Celia probed. Any information source was a good one.  
"Only that the Lampreys're complete fucknuckles," another doughnut met swift blue oblivion. "Never treated the poor critter right. Hollerin' at him for any ol' thing. Whupped him senseless, too; coupla times, at least. Real shame, what they did to 'im." {unk} "I know they moved the hell outta dodge when I asked the sheriff a few questions, too." {unk} Jake made a show of counting his fingers. "Same as ever, ain'cha, Kurt? A bottomless stomach..." he laughed. "Does me good t' see 'im lookin' better. An' he's lucky to have you guys lookin' out for 'im." Jake considered the last doughnut.  
Curt whimpered, turning on the cuteness factor for all it was worth.  
"You ever wanna see somethin' amazin', give 'im a flapjack smeared   
with treacle. Eats it just like a raccoon on fast forward."  
{unk} The last doughnut vanished as quickly as the first.  
_Thank you... now I know how to get him to eat with his hands._ "I'll keep that in mind for treat-time," she automatically scratched Curt's shoulder. "Right now, we're trying to focus on a healthy diet."  
"...oops..." Jake looked guiltily at his empty doughnut bag. "Did I screw things up on you?"  
"Nothing some meat and veg. won't fix," Celia assured. "And thankyou for his name. He's so sweet... 'demon' just doesn't suit him."  
Curt begged hopefully.  
"No more," Jake gestured with the bag, tipping it out. "Nothin' left, li'l big-stomach."  
A whimper.   
"And no, I'm not goin'a buy more for ya." Jake ruffled Curt's hair. "Ain't no trouble for me, ma'am. Hell, I'm just pleased as all get-out that he's away from them assholes and into some *proper* care."  
Celia fished for her card. "Hey, if you remember anything else about his care..."  
"Sure thing. I'll try to write it down so I ain't callin' ya long 'bout midnight. Looks like I gotta scoot on by anyhow. See ya 'round." He tipped his baseball cap and trotted back to his rig.  
Celia wished him every good happenstance he could want.

Kurt had long since licked up every trace of cinnamon and sugar on his hands, but he needed the pause to think.  
Mama had said, "Thankyou for his name."  
Didn't Mama know?  
Or was it something... else?  
Maybe Mama didn't know she was in Purgatory. Maybe her cancer had done something to her to make her confused.  
Or maybe she wasn't really Mama.  
Kurt turned aside from that thought quickly, lest God hear it, somehow. She looked like Mama. She *cared* like Mama. She knew the ear-rub and how to brush him and fed him his favourite foods and felt for him when things went bad...  
Who else could she *be*?  
All the other people here... they confused him. Some, like Betty, were guardian angels. Jaime was definitely a guardian angel. Others, like the fire-breathing Wendel or Seth or Kyle... they were a mystery. Angels or others, they all treated everyone else like equals.  
It was... bizarre.  
But then, Purgatory was a nebulous concept. It was a place for people between heaven and hell, so dogma said, but not many people ever said what it was supposed to be *like*.  
For all he knew, all this confusion and mystery was part and parcel of Purgatory.  
Either way, Kurt decided not to complain.  
Back in the trailer, now, Mama was playing with letter magnets on the fridge. Spelling out a word.  
Curt.  
Close enough, he supposed, but hardly accurate. He leaned up against the fridge and swiped the C down.  
"Not spelled with a C, huh?" Mama fiddled through a basket of other letters, finally unearthing a K. She put it in place. "Better?"  
He purred for her, carefully picking up the C in his mouth and placing it back in the basket.  
"You *can* use your hands," Mama said, scritching his itches for him. "I know you can. Just like I know you're hiding a lot more than you let us see." She found the brush and began grooming him. Top to toe. Except for the turf covered by his pants. "What can I do to help you outta that shell, hm? Do I need to get... proof."  
Kurt twisted, looking at her. Mama had a dawning smile lighting up her face. It was the sort of look that had solved a problem.  
"That's exactly it," she whispered. "*Proof*."  
Kurt pawed at the brush. Although he was glad Mama had her solution, he still needed brushing and letting her do it made her feel better about a great many things. Betty had even said it was good therapy.  
He'd give anything to have Mama get better. Having it be an enjoyable experience was just a perk.

Setting up in the third town was always chaos, mostly because the troop's doctor had to give everyone their annual checkups while the troop was in his town. And in Celia's case, that meant taking blood.  
The new hires got themselves blood-tested, too, and that's what Celia was bargaining on. With luck, Kurt would be lost in the shuffle. And even if the lab sent back a what-the-hell note, they'd *know*, one way or the other, where Kurt stood and where he should be standing.  
Personally, Celia believed that if he was smart enough to recognise and correct the spelling of his own name, he was smart enough to share the same rights as anyone else. He was already human *enough*.  
Convincing *him* of that... was an uphill battle.  
Calling Kurt by his name helped, but there were always moments of self-consciousness mingled with fear... when he caught himself doing something too human. And then it was back to square one. Celia also did her best to indulge or ignore the more intrinsically human quirks, like his moments of stillness and quiet, where the only motion was the silent counting of beads on his rosary.  
He needed to pray. As vitally as he needed air, water and food.  
Faith was a human thing, too.  
Celia spotted Doc Karloff on his way, and looked briefly skywards. _Look, Boss,_ she thought. _I know you and I don't get along, it's just that I kinda need this to work out. No nasty stuff this time, okay? Especially where Kurt's concerned. He's had enough already._  
Obviously, her and God seemed to have differing views on the limits of 'nasty stuff', because Kurt started growling and guarding her from Dr Karloff the instant he bought out his blood sampling kits.  
"Kurt. *Please*..." Celia groaned. _One day, I'm going to get up there with you, Boss... and then you and I are going to have a little 'chat'._ "He needs to take some blood to see how I'm doing. Whether or not I need something special to help me get better."  
The growl lowered to a rumble of dissent.  
"If you want," offered Karloff, "I can take some of yours... so you can see it doesn't hurt for long. Okay?"  
Good. He'd been briefed. And what a marvellous example of flim-flammery he provided, too.  
Kurt made up his mind and presented his arm.  
His blood was as red as any other mammal's, and flowed into the vials just like any other blood. Kurt watched the entire procedure without blinking.  
"Aaaannnnnd... *so*. All over." Karloff taped a little wad of cotton to the needle-mark. "What name do I put on here? Miss Yale?"  
_D'oh._ She wished he hadn't said that. Celia could see the 'Huh?' writ large on Kurt's features. "Kurt," she said, automatically. If he'd been born into the Lamprey clan, he'd have more of their features. But he didn't look like his 'Mama', either. "Kurt Wagner." Logically, Celia would tell herself later, it made sense. Wagner was the name his contract was signed under. But what had made her give it the German pronunciation?  
Whatever it was, it amplified Kurt's what-the-hell expression to an almost comical degree. Celia smoothed his hair with her free hand while Karloff drew her blood, checked her pressure, heart and breathing, and asked the obligatory busybody questions.  
Kurt alternated between being in the moment and staring at her as if trying to figure something out.

It wasn't the doctor. It wasn't the question of why Purgatory would even need a doctor. It was the name.  
Mama's name.  
The writing on the vials said _Celia L Yale_.  
Mama's name was Wagner. Just like him. Dad had called her 'woman' and Kyle had called her 'Mom', and the one doctor that came once to their house had called her 'Mrs Wagner'. As far as he knew, Mama didn't *have* a first name. He never saw it anywhere. Even her headstone had just had _Wagner_ inscribed on it with the dates and who she was.  
Thus, Kurt was at home with people calling Mama 'Celia' or 'Cee'. It sounded pretty enough to belong to her and she was always 'Mama' inside his heart and mind.  
Until now.  
Her name was Celia Yale.  
Was she still Mama?  
Was she *ever* Mama?  
But she knew his *name*. She even knew how to pronounce it properly. In many, very special ways, she had the heart and soul of Mama. Things had been better... when Mama was near. And now, when she was near, things were better again.  
He was allowed to have *fun*, for example.  
So long as he did what Sir said and act like an animal.  
So far, he'd been good enough to keep Sir at bay. So far. There was always the threat that Sir might take a sudden dislike to the way things were done and insist on new ways and that they had always been done that way.  
The thought of Sir coming to take him away to Hell fueled his more vivid nightmares. Kept him scared enough to never dare extend the boundaries of what an animal would do.  
And he only rarely let on that he was having fun.  
If Sir ever caught him at *that*...  
Kurt shivered as he trotted by Mama's side. The show tent was up and so were most of the stalls. He could smell cotton candy and hot dogs and batter deep-frying and the unique mix of grease and animals and sawdust and hay that smelled more of home than home had to him. It was a scent that banished evil or dark thoughts.  
In the end... did it really *matter* if Mama was Mama? She was Mama enough to him. Shouldn't that be all?  
Couldn't he just simply enjoy what he had?  
What was wrong with him, that he had to poke holes in the good things when he had the choice to heartily enjoy them?  
Kurt made himself forget his concern about names and Mama and what it could all mean. He had a show. He could *play*.  
That was what he could enjoy. So he *should*.

Karl lit the match. What a marvellous thing was fire. It purified, reduced, warmed, cooked, lit... so many things. It was almost alive, yet it was predictable if one knew it.  
He had fond dreams of being able to burn his father's house down around the old fogey's ears, one day. One day, after he'd left home, and Dad was drowning in his own putrescence... he'd light it all and watch it burn to nothing.  
But now was not the time to dream.  
He lodged the match in the book, tossing the primative time-delay fuse onto a handy haybale. He'd position himself so he was invisible. It wasn't that hard, since they'd be looking at the fire.  
Blood and burning... both bought attention.  
Both could be used in his favour.  
True to his predictions, the carnies went ape-shit over a couple of bales of burning hay. Horses and people screaming covered the very soft noise of his entering the tent.  
The bald bitch had gone, and the last of the carnies were ushering the last of the gawkers out. He ducked in time to avoid a carnie checking over his shoulder for stragglers... and then there was just him and the freak.  
The one who was *really* to blame.  
He was coming to a slow halt on a rope swing, staring at him, when the inexpensive pendulum would let him.  
Karl took his time, slowly advancing on the wire and metal mesh. "You think it's all fun, don't you?" he said. "You're actually *enjoying* this..." he laughed. "God-*DAMN*, but you're a stupid freak."  
Once again, he was in gull-mode. That mouth-open, is-it-really sort of stare that would believe *anything* Karl told him. Well. Maybe except for why pulling the legs off of bugs was a good thing. Karl had never been able to finesse him on that.  
"They're only being nice to you so you'll do this whole stupid act for them," he said. "They don't really *like* you. None of them actually *like* you. How could they? You're a *freak*. You're a fucking *demon* for fuck's sake. If they feel anything for you at all? It's fear. They're all scared of you. They *hate* you. And as soon as you stop earning them money? They'll *burn* you."  
He shuddered. The kid had a lifelong fear of being burned alive.  
"Hell, I bet you could smell the smoke, right now."  
Sniff, sniff... cower.  
"That's right. They're gettin' ready for barbecued freak a-la mode..." Karl grinned, watching the freak shiver and shake. "If you live through this night? It's 'cause Dad an' me convinced 'em to let you alone. Hell, for all we know, you're poisonous, anyway."  
He'd really curled in on himself, now. Almost impossible to get him into any tighter of a huddle without free access and some rope. And yet, he was still *talking*.  
"...n't... m'm'..."  
Oh. *OH*, this was rich. The baldy bitch did look a little something like Mom and the freak had - Karl cackled at the thought - the freak had *imprinted* on her. "Wait. Wait. You think she's *MOM*?" Another mad cackle. "God, you are so fucking stupid..." His ribs hurt. This was just so damned hillarious. "If she *was* Mom, do you think she'd put you in *there*? Show you off to the rubes for a nickel a ticket? Yeah, that's right, freaky. You're only worth a *nickel*! At least *Mom* had the sense to keep you away from infecting people with your demon *filth*. Worthless little rag rug that you are. You're not even fit for *skinning*."  
Oh yeah. Now he had the power. Lookit him. All balled up and trying not to cry. Even the tail had wrapped around him.  
"They hate you. They *all* hate you. That's why you're in the *cage*. That's why you're wearing that *collar*. That's why you'll never be   
nothing more than a mangy blue demonic *freak*!"  
"And you're about to be arrested for arson, breaking and entering, and anything else we can come up with between now and when the police arrive."  
Karl turned. It was baldy bitch and her pet giant. He put his hands on his head. "So... you do it with the freak or what?" he said.  
"Get him the fuck outta this tent," sighed baldy.  
Karl blew her a kiss on the way out.

It was later. They'd dissassembled the cage around them for the lion act that night. Celia held tight to him and rocked gently back and forth. Cooing nonsense words into one pointed ear.  
That little *fuck* had pulled a vicious stunt. Something that broke Kurt and put him back *weeks* on the path he'd already taken towards recovery.  
"He lied," she said, not knowing much of what that little sociopath had had to say. "He lied viciously. And cruelly. You don't have to listen to him or *anything* he had to say. He's--" Celia had to clear her throat to speak. "He's just a little asshole just waiting for a very, *very* long jail term. He's white trash. Garbage. Only fit to be thrown away. Don't you pay any mind to him at all."  
A shaky sob. "...mama..."  
Celia held him tight. "It's okay. Mama's here. Mama's here, sweetie." She may burn in hell for saying that lie, but - right then - they both needed it.  
She'd pay its whole weight in the fullness of time.

Mama hadn't carried him like that since he was really little. Kurt hoped he wasn't too heavy, but stayed still enough to be carried. Wriggling would have only made it worse for Mama.  
He hid his tear-ridden face against her shoulder and did his level best to maintain the attitude of a sick or injured animal. Sir was around. Sir would *know* if Kurt had failed in this one task. Sir always knew when Kurt was a failure.  
Which was pretty much always.  
Sir had sent Karl. Kurt knew this as surely as he knew that the sun rose every morning and that his fur was blue. If Kurt had been truly sinful and evil, Sir would have come himself.  
The message was clear. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't supposed to enjoy his labors. Pennance was meant to be suffered.  
They had put him in a cage to suffer.  
Except...  
He made the most money when he had the most fun. When he pushed at the boundary between incredible and impossible. When he felt the singular joy of being himself to the hilt - without shame.  
_Forgive me, Father, for I am sin..._  
He *should* be ashamed.  
He was nothing more than a freak. A blot on the otherwise flawless face of both Mother Nature *and* God. He was truly evil to enjoy being himself, when all he was was a stain.  
He was a demon.  
Enjoying his demonic state would get him no closer to God... but every possible inch closer to Hell.

"You didn't."  
"I sure as hell *did*," Celia argued. "I *had* to."  
"And what if you fell over sick or something?"  
"For God's sake, Betty..."  
"You're our chief animal handler. If something happened to you--"  
"It *didn't* happen, okay? I just carried him from the tent to the goddamn trailer. I've done that with full-grown goddamn *Lions*, Betty!"  
Kurt, for the record, was asleep on the couch. A state which had little to do with the recent upheaval and a lot to do with a mild sedative slipped into his hot chocolate before Betty got there.  
"*Before* you got cancer, damnit! Cee, you're *sick*."  
"I'm well a-damn-nough to argue about it, Betty. I'm getting *better*, now."  
"You're still too sick to pull that sort of-- of-- stupid-fuck *stunt*. Jesus, Cee. I nearly shat myself when I heard what you did."  
"He's a *kid*, Betty. And underweight, to boot. Go on. You lift him and see."  
Grumbling, Betty picked him up. "Jesus H..." She juggled him a little. "He's lighter than he looks."  
"See? I did *not* strain myself."  
"Yeah, but I've seen how much he *eats*. Where does it all *go*?"  
"Burns it up again?" Celia shrugged. "He's pretty active. Hell, I keep him off the sugar as much as I can 'cause I happen to like my vintage suspension."  
"Don't even try to derail me, Celia Lauren Yale. This isn't about him," Betty put Kurt back down and turned on her. "It's about you. You keep over-estimating what you can actually *do*. And every time you do it, I wind up picking up the goddamn spill."  
"You'd prefer we sat on the cold ground all night?"  
Betty fumed. She did it so perfectly that smoke should have arisen from her ears. "...no. But that doesn't mean you were in the right. Jaime could have--"  
"Jaime was busy with the horses after the fire. *Everyone* was busy after the fire; what with the police and the fire brigade and the gawkers, and let's not forget those assholes the Wagners. Or whatever they want to call themselves, this week..."  
Betty harrumphed. A little elementary research at the town's library's computers had revealed that the 'Wagners' had several aliases and were wanted in various states for a miriad of small-to-middling crimes. If they had a real identity, it was cunningly concealed in amongst a myriad of other, nearly-real pseaudonyms and false paperwork that had made tracking them and their crimes down an intricate and confusing art.  
And somewhere in there, they were wanted for questioning in Germany with regards to the willful neglect of a sick woman... and the possible abduction of her son. There was no photo of the son, but the image of the woman - Ada Wagner - looked almost exactly like Celia.  
It was the only international crime - or possible crime - that they were involved in.  
The son was called Kurt.  
For Celia, it was a co-incidence too strong to ignore.  
Kurt invaded her bed-nook, that night; seeking a mother's comfort in the simple warmth of her body and the presence of her arm wrapped around his torso. He held her hand as if it were some kind of teddy bear.  
He also generated heat like nothing else. Since it was early spring, and winter still had a grip on her bones, she was glad of that extra warmth. And the drowsy, lulling purr he made in his sleep. Celia still found herself hoping that he wouldn't need such comforting in the middle of summer.  
At least the sociopath was away in Juvie again, and Wagner the elder was busy sorting *that* out, rather than harrassing the troop accountant for "the other books". Working on Kurt's psychological problems - until the next Wagner/Lamprey/whatever-they-called-themselves-related mishap would have to wait until tomorrow.  
_Sleep deep, and have healing dreams, little boy,_ Celia thought, working her other hand around to soothe her fingers through his hair. _One way or another, I'll see to it that you get more than you could dream for._

~

"Sustagex... weight gain powder... a little malt... what next?"  
{Mrrrrrtt?}  
Celia accepted the bunch from his mouth. "Bananas. Oh yes. Can't forget the bananas. How many, do you think?"  
No answer. He still wasn't speaking. Even though the Wagners had come and gone again, he still wasn't speaking. Not even a single 'Mama' since Wagner the younger had had his little "pep talk" with the poor kid.  
Celia peeled a banana. "One for you..." Her knife flashed, chopping it into smaller chunks for the growing mass in the blender. She started on the second. "One for me..." a third, "...aaaaannnnd one for the pot." Some yoghurt went in, as did a little extra cream. "Think it's ready?"  
Kurt batted at the lid.  
_Go whiz it, ma,_ Celia smirked at the memory. Whenever she was sick, Mom would make some kind of milky concoction that was half entertainment, half dietary disaster, and all sweet and delicious. The only difference now was that *this* concoction was medically recommended to help her body build itself up. It was so rich that she could only handle a small glass every other hour. Provided she took it easy.  
Kurt gulped the stuff down like his life depended on it. And, afterwards, he was *still* hungry enough to eat at least two full meals.  
He never gained an ounce of fat. If it went into anything, as far as Celia could determine, it went into growing and muscle tone, as well as   
the light sprinkling of shed fuzz they groomed off his body, daily.  
At least he was looking better, physically speaking. The last lingering signs of his former abuse were fading, even to her overly-critical eye. He seemed happier and more at home with himself. More relaxed.  
If only he'd relax enough to *talk*, damnit. Or at least shed some element of his animal act and let Celia know just how clever he truly was. It made her want to hug him and strangle him at the same time.  
Kurt watched the bits and pieces in the blender dance their way into a liquid state with a clear air of fascination and anticipation. He was, Celia noted, careful to maintain an animalistic posture as he leaned against the counter.  
It was only a matter of luck that she heard the knock on the door over the noise. "Oh, fudge-knuckles..." she muttered, turning the machine off.  
{raprapraprap}  
"Yeah, I'm coming," Celia dodged around Kurt, who had decided to ankle as she tried to get to the door. It made her journey of a few feet more entertaining for sure. A peek out the peephole revealed a Fed-ex guy.  
_Paranoid, Celia. Paranoid._ But then, considering the effect the Wagners seemed to have on Kurt... paranoia was warranted.  
Celia opened the door. "Yes?"  
"Whoa," said the Fed-ex guy. "Uh. Celia Yale?"  
She found her ID in her purse by the door and proved her identity. The Fed-ex guy handed her an envelope, she signed, and then it got stranger than what passed for normal in the troop.  
"Uhm. I also have a packet for uh... Kurt Wagner?" he pronounced it 'WAG-ner'.  
"Vaugh-ner," Celia corrected. "I'm his guardian." She signed for the extra envelope and bit the guy a good day.  
"Say, what *is* that thing, anyway?" he said, pointing at Kurt.  
Celia smiled, half to herself. "One of a kind." She put the envelopes down under her purse, and returned to the far more important business of finishing the production of their nutri-shake.  
By the time she would come back to them, she would have far much more proof of his humanity than she could hope for.

The mobile movie library had arrived. The sight of the reconditioned bus turned the entire troop upside-down as the whole crew rummaged through their collections for films they wanted to exchange or lists of ones they wanted to add to their collections.  
Celia was no different. She had a small pile of movies she was simply sick of, a new list of quasi-educational DVDs recommended for their mixture of tolerability and actual learning value along with decent levels of entertainment. After all, it would be months before anyone in the troop saw the mobile movie library again.  
She took Kurt because not taking him meant leaving him unsupervised in a cage. Unguarded - since the entire troop would be otherwise occupied - and more vulnerable than ever to the incursion of the Wagners. Lampreys. Shitheads.  
Celia smirked. Whatever name they went by, Kurt's former tormenters were nothing more than shitheads. Therefore, that was what she would call them, even if it *was* only in the privacy of her own mind.  
Since the library was parked inside the 'backstage' area of the circus, Celia decided to just let him follow her without the leash. It was one of the few freedoms she could lend him. Besides, Gary the movie van guy had once bragged that absolutely nothing could surprise him, any more. It was part of circus honour to take him up on that statement wherever possible.  
Gary, alas, didn't turn a hair at Kurt's appearance by her side. All that his presence earned was a raised eyebrow and an, "Interesting..."  
"I swear, you're half-vulcan," she drawled.  
Gary smirked as he tabulated her credit from the stack of movies she supplied. "Well, I gotta admit, I ain't never seen one of *him*, before... but after a while? I guess I just take anything in stride."  
"Damn," Celia joked. "Where's your educational section? I need something enhancing, tolerable, and entertaining all at once. And morale-boosting, too. No guys in stupid suits, if that's possible."  
Gary whistled backwards. "Now *that* takes some looking for. Babysitting on the side?"  
"Something like that," Celia allowed.  
The interior of the mobile movie bus was cramped with shelves and arranged in such a way that one wended a serpentine path towards the back. Celia followed Gary along it in the happy mein of one who was anticipating something new.  
She didn't even notice when Kurt left her side.  
The educational videos with more than a modicum of adult tolerability mostly involved the muppets. Something Celia had concerns over, what with Kurt's own... physical uniqueness. She didn't want him thinking that she thought of him as some kind of stuffed plaything meant solely for amusement - hers or otherwise.  
In fact, an appalling amount of kidvids were either too filled with saccharine or edging into territory, towards which Celia would rather not go. She eventually chose a few more acceptable options, including a couple of disks of Henson's _The Storyteller_, if only for kicks.  
Celia reached down for a reassuring pat to Kurt's blue-furred shoulder.  
Which was no longer there.  
Her heart went from zero to thirteen million feet high in a picosecond as she looked around for any hint of her so-far constant companion.  
"Kurt?" she risked.  
No answer.  
Of all his silences, this was the most terrifying.  
"Does he bite?" said Gary.  
"Not yet," said Celia, already taking off for the back of the bus. _If those shitheads are tormenting him, somehow, I am going to fucking kill them and damn what state we're in._  
Gary headed the other way. "C'mon, li'l fella... speak?"  
She found him in the classics section.  
*Holding* a DVD case in both hands.  
Looking at the back. No. *Reading* the back.  
Sure, she knew he knew how to spell his name, but that much elementary information was sometimes absorbed before true literacy began. He was actually literate. She could see his eyes tracking the words across the back of the case. His lips moved, very subtly, as they did.  
Celia *had* to see what absorbed his attention so. She bent down, trying to get a view of the title.  
"The Mark of Zorro?" she read.  
The effect was electric.  
Kurt shot straight up, landing on the ceiling with his tail-fur bristling and a shocked yawp escaping his mouth. The DVD case flew into the air, turning over and over like a parody of a cartoon before it finally obeyed the laws of gravity to descend with a soft clatter to the carpet. It took Kurt a handful of seconds to recognise her and land back down on the floor. Tail tucked down, cringing and still half fearful.  
She'd never even *thought* of raising a hand to him. "Oh, Kurt..."  
Then he sat up and begged.  
It was a pure strangle/hug moment, when she couldn't decide between weeping and laughing, crushing him in a protective embrace or chastising him for thinking such lowly thoughts.  
"Aaaww... *Kurt*..." Celia sighed and picked up the case. "Of course we can get this. And anything else you like."  
Caught, Kurt looked between the DVDs and her. He knew he couldn't pluck the cases out of the tightly-packed shelves and still maintain his act... and she knew he knew it, too.  
The biggest risk factor was Gary. If he saw anything unusual, Kurt could possibly go *backwards*, retreating further and further into the animal kingdom until he was completely lost.  
Celia improvised. "I found him, Gary," she called. "He's having a bit of a panic attack, so it might be wiser if you just stayed put."  
"Gotcha," said Gary. "And you're cleaning any messes."  
Celia knelt by him, and re-used words of evil for a good cause. "It's okay," she whispered into Kurt's pointed ear. "This can be our special secret."  
He still looked torn.  
"I'll protect you," she vowed.  
His thick-fingered hands were surprisingly graceful and delicate when it came to extracting covers from the shelves. Even though his hands were steady, the rest of him clearly displayed his agitation and fear. Kurt stopped at four. _The Mark of Zorro_, _Captain Blood_, _Robin Hood_, and _The Count of Monte Cristo_. All ancient films. Hell, the version of _Captain Blood_ he picked starred Errol Flynn.  
Celia gave him a reassuring hug until he got out of the shakes. She could very cheerfully maim, bend, warp, spindle and mutillate the shitheads that had worked him over. In the meantime, though, they had to retreat to a place of safety in order to help him feel secure.  
He walked beside her so closely that he almost shoved her to one side as they travelled. Physical contact - in the form of her hand on his head - helped him from doing just that. Barely.  
It was no quirk of imagination that produced the low groan of relief when they entered their trailer... from both of them.  
_Sanctum sanctorum,_ Celia thought. Tomorrow, there would be another show. Today, however, had time for popcorn and old movies featuring guys with swords.

"Knock knock," said Betty as she let herself in. "Jaime told me Wendel said Julie said Tom said that Anje heard orchestral music coming from your trailer... so I've been sent to see if you're watching anything depressing."  
"Ssshhhh..." Celia hissed, pointing.  
There, on the floor in front of the TV, Kurt was eating popcorn.  
Not like an animal.  
Just like a regular kid watching their favourite film.  
"Oh wow," she whispered.  
"His bathwater was tepid," said one of the monochrome figures on the screen - Kurt mouthing along. "Poor Lolita. I fear her married life will be the same."  
Kurt laughed under his breath.  
"He *smiles*," Betty squeaked.  
"Sshhh!" Celia took her into the quieter side of the trailer. "Look. I know it's goddamn cute and all, but we *can't* let him know we know. Every time he crosses the line and we know about it, he goes completely backwards again."  
"Now that's just a damn fucking shame," Betty said. "He thinks he's not allowed to enjoy himself? I swear, the next time I see those asshats the Wagners, I'm gonna--"  
"Ssshhh." Celia checked over her shoulder.  
Kurt showed no sign of acknowledging Betty's outburst. He was deep into the movie.  
"Just-- just *let* him enjoy, okay? And if he catches you, just act ignorant."  
"Oy veh..." Betty sighed. "No wonder you're the best for this job. You live off of catering to psychoses."  
"What? So you have a valid way of *forcing* him to relax and enjoy himself?"  
"That's a cheap shot and you know it, Cee."  
"It's only cheap 'cause we both know it's right in the bullseye," Celia whispered. "If I had legal proof one way or the other..."  
Betty reached over to the medical result envelopes under Celia's purse and handed them to her. "Like these?"  
"Oh, fucksacks, I completely forgot those." Celia took the one with Kurt's name on it and tore it open. A moment's searching for meaning... "Oh boy. You are *not* going to believe this."  
Betty peered over the side. "O *positive*?" she blurted. "His blood group's O positive?"  
Kurt heard, and dived into his hiding spot under the knitted blanket on the couch.  
Celia sighed and went into mop-up mode. "It's okay, hon. It's *good* news." She turned a light on and showed him the papers. "You remember that blood they took? They did some tests on it and... look. It says right here you're not an animal."  
Betty craned her neck to have a look. O+ blood group, immunized against all the childhood diseases, a recommendation to give him a tetanus shot when they could get to a doctor, since they found only the faintest trace of immunity in his system. Red blood cells counted high, indicating an athlete in training... and apart from some lingering symptoms of starvation, everything was normal across the board.  
Normal for human.  
If Kurt *was* an animal, the lab would have sent them a what-the-fuck letter and an indication of his species. Or a ballpark guess.  
"Human," said Betty. "And entitled to every human right there is."  
Celia reached for the collar. "I've never *been* so glad to get rid of this fucking thing."  
Kurt's hands trapped hers. "No?"  
"What? *Why*?"  
Four quiet words. "Sir will kill us." And for the first time ever, he flinched away from her touch.  
Celia looked about ready to cry. "Kurt?"  
"Let him think," said Betty. "I reckon it's a big revelation for him."

Celia sighed as she let herself out of the shower. Betty was right, of course. Kurt needed time to sort things out in his head. Having someone pester him into a decision was the last thing he needed. Even a well-meaning someone such as herself.  
Wrapped in a towel, she reached up to swipe some lingering moisture from her head... and encountered stubble.  
Stubble.  
Okay, so some of it was soft and slightly on the pathetic side, but it was actual hair on her actual head. Celia wiped the mirror off to have a good look.  
She actually had peach fuzz.  
Her momentary elation was quickly swallowed by the fact that no sympathetic magic had turned her hair another colour - like the auburn featured in the locket Kurt had given her. It was still a very uninteresting and almost ugly uck-brown.  
She could only cover it for so long, before Kurt saw and had his fondest illusion shattered.  
Dare she maintain such an illusion by dying her paltry crop auburn?  
Could she stand the upkeep of such a lie?  
Was Kurt even ready for whatever she decided?  
Ready or not, here it came.  
Kurt was worth more than lies, no matter how comforting those lies were. She should have corrected him at the first 'Mama'. She should never have let him persist...  
But he'd *needed* her to be his Mama. And she was acting the part *anyway*.  
A soft gasp. A tiny, "...nein..." and Celia knew it was already too late.  
He'd seen.  
He knew.

Kurt stared off into space. Mama wasn't Mama. Her hair was wrong. There had been other things, of course, tiny signals that he'd ignored or glossed over in the want to have Mama close.  
He wasn't really dead.  
No Purgatory.  
No hope of heaven.  
No true escape from Sir.  
No re-uniting with the family he loved.  
Nothing, in fact, but more heartache and fear and the eventual return to chains and Sir's casual brutality.  
What was he supposed to *do*?  
His idle gaze, drawn outside the window, found the distant spire of an ancient church hiding behind the trees.  
One way or another, he'd find out.  
Tonight.

Kurt wasn't in his bed-nook. He wasn't watching movies. He wasn't snaffling leftovers out of the fridge. He wasn't hiding in any single storage nook in the entire trailer.  
Celia had checked them five times, now.  
The only thing left of him was the collar. The collar that he'd refused to be without during the entirety of the time she'd known him.  
He wasn't anywhere near the trailer. He wasn't hiding under it. He wasn't tending to the small creatures that the circus used as a petting zoo for the smaller clientelle. He wasn't sneaking carrots to the horses, nor communing with the elephants... he wasn't near his display cage and no-one - *no-one* - had seen him this morning.  
Shithead the younger wasn't due out on parole for another week. The odds against the elder appearing without him were remote... but Celia's imagination was already running amok with visions of the burly, surly senior shithead abducting Kurt for his own reasons.  
She'd only recently got him to *relax*... and with his guard down, he'd be easy prey for someone like *him*.  
Even though her former health was returning, it wasn't returning fast enough. She'd been all through the camp, over decreasing periods of time, alternately running and panicking. At least until three of her staff, Betty and Jaime ganged up with Seth and made her sit quietly until she stopped looking so frighteningly close to the grave.  
"But he's somewhere out there and--"  
"Hon, you won't find him any faster by keeling over," counselled Sean.  
"Just sit tight. We'll find him," added Jaime.  
Celia felt worse than helpless, craning her neck to see any sign of a triumphant return. Or any kind of return at all.  
_Boss, please... just let him be alive, safe and well. Unharmed would be nice, if possible,_ Celia prayed. _Just let me know he's alive, safe and well. Please._  
Then she saw him.  
He looked lost, trying to find someone he didn't know how to recognize. Wandering uncertainly about, seeking someone in charge. Or making himself bait for the first person to ask if they could help him.  
"Whichever wisenheimer got the priest in here is going to get flayed," vowed Celia. "I'm not fucking dead *yet*, goddamn it!"  
"Priest?"  
"What?"  
Jaime spotted him next, and did the usual is-there-a-problem routine.  
"Well... 'problem' is a rather harsh word, but..." the man of the cloth shrugged. "I can't think of anything else that would do."  
"Let me guess," said Wendel. "Someone objects to the Sunday performance? Or is it 'pagan imagery' again?"  
"Ah, no. Um. I'm Father McKensy, by the way... The -ah- problem is... er... well. One of your -ah- crew is in the chapel and... to be brutally honest about it... He's going to disturb my parishoners."

Father McKensy had found him like this. Kneeling on the stone floor before the altar, head bowed and hands entangled in his rosary. There was no indication of how long he'd been sitting like that.  
"I found him like that shortly after dawn," McKensy whispered. "I thought it best not to disturb him."  
Celia fought to walk down the aisle towards him, instead of running in an undignified and blubbering mess.  
And then Kurt moved.  
His head raised. He was looking up at the cross.  
"Please," he said. "What do I *do*?"  
"Same as everyone else, kid," said Celia. "The very best you can."  
He turned, startled, to see her. He'd been crying. His mouth moved to frame the word 'Mama', but stopped.  
He didn't know what to call her.  
Celia crouched beside him. "You scared the living spit out of me this morning, sweetie."  
His head lowered. "Sorry."  
The next thing she knew, she was squeezing the stuffing out of him. "Thank God you're okay... I was so worried."  
He hugged her back, tail wrapping around her as well as his arms.  
Alive. Safe. Well. And unharmed.  
_Thanks, Boss._

Kurt stared out the window on the ride back home to the circus. _Odd way to think about it,_ he mused. _Home._ It certainly felt more like home than any of the multitude of houses he'd stayed in with Sir and Karl. In fact, no place had been home to him since Mama...  
_Mama..._ His hand closed on her rosary. She was dead. The woman driving the car had beaten the cancer that had taken his Mama from him. She was not Mama. Her name was Celia Yale.  
She looked painfully like Mama, though.  
And she *cared* like Mama. He could see it in everything she did as well as the way she did it. Big things, like arranging some extra time so he could confess and receive absolution before services that morning. Little things, like the way she tucked him in at night.  
"What happens, now?" he asked.  
"We can't exactly change your act overnight. I'm sorry, but you need to do some learning first. You'll have to join the rest of the kids in the circus school... And I'm sure you can work with the rest of us on something for the next town. Something that gets you out of that goddamn cage for once and for all..."  
"Do I have to?"  
A frightening veer of the car. "Please don't say stuff like that when I'm turning a corner, Kurt." Celia recovered her breath. "You have the right to choose what you do, sure, but... Seeing you in a cage? It's a cosmic wrong so great that I feel like I'm tempting the wrath of God. You were meant for so much more than just a cage and an animal act."  
"But I'm invisible, there."  
"Invisible..." she muttered. "Sweetheart, there's ways to be invisible and right out there at the same time." A grin. "You never hide a needle in a haystack - you hide it in a sewing kit."

She held his hand on the way back inside the circus. Just about everyone knew about him, thanks to Betty and the grape vine - not to mention their own canny observation skills. As a result, there was a general air of celebration when they saw him walking upright.  
"Hey, it's a breakthrough!"  
"It's a miracle!"  
"There's our wonder-boy!"  
And, most importantly, they all treated him like another one of them. A fellow human being.  
It was the best moment.

Dad tore open the envelope with much the same motion as wringing a tiny neck. "No cheque," he rumbled.  
_Fuck._ Karl stood his ground and did his best not to let his trepidation show. No way was he going to flinch and cower from the man like the freak did. He was bigger and badder than that.  
Besides, he had ways of making his pains pass on.  
Dad read the folded paper with growing redness in his face. "Those little fucking *fuckers*!"  
_Shit._ He refused to close his eyes. He'd face his pain head-on. Then dish it out to anyone else who flinched.  
"Get a fucking trusted lawyer, my ass! Those fucksacks are screwing me over and sueing me for it!"  
Here it came.  
Might as well get it over with. "Told you to read the fucking contract," he said.  
Sure, it would hurt. The waiting was the part that Karl couldn't stand. Best to goad the old man into action and get it done quick. After that, it was all healing.  
Healing, and making sure that those lesser than him got what they deserved.

They were looking for him, this time. The instant he slipped away from Dad's negotiations with the old deaf fart, there was someone tailing him. Watching him.  
Karl had had to be subtle, doing little acts of sabotage until his persistent follower was derailed by undoing the damage. Another little surprise for the rest of the carnies was easy. He could break open a padlock in less than three seconds. And did so. Repeatedly.  
Enough to let some of the more interesting animals out.  
Then he slipped into the freak's tent.  
Perfect. They fell for it like before.  
"This is how they pay you off," he scoffed. "A bigger cage and clean shorts? Do you get doggie snacks as well?" He rattled the cage's big lock. "Look at these chains! They wouldn't trust you to breathe near them. Murdering *freak*!"  
"Actually, they're just for show," said Kurt.  
Suddenly out of the cage.  
Breathing down his neck.  
Right next to him.  
_My, what sharp teeth he has..._ Up close and personal, they were the sole focus of his attention.  
"The real lock is on the inside. With me." A deft, swift movement and he had both of Karl's wrists painfully behind his own back. "Shall we go see how dear ol' Dad is doing with the lawyers?"  
Karl thought hard about struggling. About putting the freak back in his place. And then he realized that that particular part of the wall was the local giant.  
Karl went quietly.

~

"And since we're on the subject of damages," said Seth as Karl entered in the custody of Jaime and Kurt, "about your son's repeated sabotage of the circus..."  
Celia smirked as Shithead Senior fumed. He daren't unleash his muscular power here in Seth's trailer, especially not with two sets of lawyers and one sherrif's deputy present. Jaime's presence was noted by the man's piggy eyes as a very real potential threat, and the aura of incipient violence from him ebbed to a low murmur.  
Kurt saw Shithead Junior into his seat, then backed warily away until his hand automatically held hers. He was trembling subtly, never taking his eyes off his tormentors and breathing a little heavily.  
Celia rubbed her thumb on the back of his hand. _I'm here for you._  
Kurt perched in his seat, tail flicking like a cat's. His yellow eyes bore a look of grim determination.  
She knew that look. She'd worn it herself when facing torturous hours of chemo. The look that said, _Either I'm killing this or it's killing me. Whichever way it goes, I am going to be *Done* with this._  
The legal bickering continued, between proof from their lawyers that Kurt was a human being and had his legal rights, to counter-arguments from the Shitheads' lawyer that, since he was human, he legally belonged in the Shitheads' custody. Which lead, as it had the last three times, to the questionable legality of Lamprey's use of the Wagner name.  
Then the troop lawyer played the trump card. When Shithead Senior had signed Kurt over to the circus, he'd signed a contract indicating that he owned an *animal*... as such, the contract was null and void and, if Shithead insisted on his 'ownership', he could be convicted of conducting illegal slavery.  
As things stood, however, the circus was willing to magnanimously forgive the outstanding amount of misappropriated cash in return for signing Kurt's custody over to a more - *willing* guardian.  
"That would be me," Celia volunteered.  
Shithead Junior spoke up. "Shyeah. Trust an animal trainer to schtup a freak like him."  
Shithead Senior casually backhanded the kid right off his chair. "Shut up, boy."  
In the very few seconds that it took Shithead Junior to pick himself up and place himself back on his seat, Celia saw that it was far too late to save him. Child Protection Services would only case manage him for a year, two at the most, and then he'd be turned out on the streets and nobody would care. He'd grow up to be just like his father and nothing was going to alter that transformation.  
All the system would do was teach him to be worse.  
Celia barely restrained the shudder at that concept.   
The troop lawyer was fossicking for the correct documentation. "Mr... Lamprey. What exactly *is* your correct legal relationship to -ah- Kurt? Are you his biological father?"  
Shithead Senior went from zero to red-faced indignance in nothing flat. "Hell, no! I never fathered nothing like *that*! Nuthin' wrong with *me*."  
"Are he and your son... siblings?"  
Shithead Junior coughed out, "*Fuck*, no!"  
"My ass they are," said Shithead Senior. "That thing came with the second wife. Ain't nothing to do with either of us."  
"*Reee-ally*..." cooed the deputy.  
Shithead Senior got that classic, _O *fuck*,_ look on his face that said, clear as day, that he just realized he'd said too much at the wrong time. He clammed right up, of course, but it was far, far too late.  
"So..." drawled Seth. "You're not his father. He's not related to your son... in fact, the only relationship you have between you is that you were once married to his Mom. Am I right?"  
Shithead Senior mumbled his assent.  
"And, since your legal hold over the boy is tenuous at most, perhaps it would be more... sensible to sign his custody over to a more capable volunteer whilst we locate his surviving family."  
Steam could have risen from his ears. Smoke could have appeared over his cranium. He certainly knew what he faced if he disagreed.  
But it was still fun to watch him weigh it in the balance.  
"Where do I sign?" he growled.  
After that, it was almost shockingly fast. Signiatures were signed, the lawyers witnessed, signed where they had to, and in a matter of instants Kurt was legally Celia's ward.  
He had an identity as a human being. And documented proof, should anyone demand it.  
Celia gave him a hug when the Shitheads left for good. Sure, they wouldn't be served with the restraining order until they got home, but they were officially out of her and Kurt's hair.  
"Welcome to official humanity," she said. "There's only one thing you need to do, now..."  
Kurt looked suddenly apprehensive. "There... is?"  
"Put a goddamn shirt on," she said with some exasperation. "I didn't buy 'em so you could look at them."

The party that night completely failed to dampen Kurt's enthusiasm in the morning. If anything, he was more lively than ever.  
Celia, alas, had a hangover.  
"Izzit time? Izzit time yet?"  
Celia dragged herself to the coffee. "...i hate morning people..."  
"Izzit time now?"  
"...mrghl..." Hot and sweet, just like she preferred her men. "Time f'r whut?"  
"*School*," said Kurt, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
Celia managed to get her eyes to focus on a chronometer. "Nearly."  
"Yeah!" He started dancing to a tune only he could hear.  
*God* she could hate morning people. If this one wasn't so damn cute, she'd have strangled him. "Put a goddamn shirt on," she muttered. "Bare chests are for sweat... 'n' nobody sweats in school."  
And, since she'd essentially trapped him in the kitchen, he leaped up and made his way back to the beds and clothing storage by way of the   
ceiling.  
_Morning people..._ Celia rolled her eyes. At least he'd cooked breakfast. The truly rich fare that he adored and she could only tolerate small doses of.  
Small mercies. She would get her daily protein allotment in one serving, and in a handful of minutes, Kurt would be zooming towards the trailer where the circus' brats would go through their three Rs and sundry other lessons requested and required by State law.  
In the meantime, she could hold off wanting to strangle him for the hour before classes actually started.  
"This okay?"  
_My *eyes*!_ Celia boggled at the - ensemble. Did he have to pick the brightest, most garish shirt that clashed with everything he had on? What had possessed her to purchase that one in the first place? Oh yeah. It looked like it would fit and she'd had enough of shopping for one day.  
This was her kharma coming home to roost.  
And she couldn't say anything that would bruise his already severely-damaged self esteem. *Fabulous*.  
Celia sipped her coffee. At last. Enough of the miraculous caffeine to make her brain work. "If you like it, then it's okay," she said.  
His grin was brighter than the shirt. She thought that sort of thing should have been physically impossible... but there it was.  
Celia actually found herself sniffling to see him on his way to school.

Kurt was all nerves. Was he dressed appropriately? Did he have enough stuff? Should he have bought an apple like he saw in all the pictures?  
No. He was that nervous that the poor teacher would have been receiving a core - if they were lucky - by the time he got there. Even now, in the midst of plenty, he would habitually eat anything left out long enough. Especially something 'left out' in his hand.  
Maybe he should have packed something to eat. Except he didn't know if he had the fortitude to reign in his habit long enough to conform with whatever they expected of him.  
What if he was stupid after all, just like Sir said?  
What if he couldn't learn?  
What if he got it wrong?  
What if they laughed at him?  
What if...  
Kurt clutched at his rosary, seeking reassurance from the one power that had always been with him... but had never been there for him. The weight of Mama's beads reassured him enough to keep his feet moving. Kept him pointed towards the school trailer.  
He could see it now. Feel his heart ricochetting around his ribcage. Hear his breath rasping through his throat.  
He wasn't ready.  
Maybe he could turn and run back, now. Back to the known safety of Mama Celia. Back to what he knew he could do.  
One of the high-flyers spotted him. A sprite of a girl who still sparkled despite the plain denim and ordinary T-shirt. "He's here," she chirped, leaping from her perch to run towards him.  
She was a wisp of a creature. Diminutive and delicate... yet all he could focus on were her fists as she ran towards him.  
And in an instant, he was back in one of the many dark places. Out of breath. Hurting. Sir coming down the hallway towards him. His fists   
primed and ready to strike...  
He flinched instinctively. Too afraid to move.  
"Hey. *Whoah*... It's okay."  
A gentle touch, butterfly-light, made him yelp and jump back, opening his eyes once more.  
Glitter-sprite was looking up at him. "See? Nobody's gonna hurt you," she soothed. "C'mon, you can put your arm down, it's okay."  
Her hand looked frail in his. As if he could break each slender finger by clenching his own thick digits. Kurt knew for a fact that her hands were stronger than they looked. They held her aloft on the trapeze and launched her into flight across the big top. They never let her fall.  
Therefore, Kurt offered no resistance as she lead him those last few meters to his fate.  
His vision had darkened to a small tunnel filled with odd sparks by the time he actually reached his destination.  
"He's here, Mrs Nezmith!"  
A surprisingly grandmotherly type emerged and smiled. "You must be Kurt," she said, reaching for him.  
"...wunkh..." said Kurt as he passed out.

He woke in a nest of cushions with a fan ruffling his fur. The grandmother-esque woman - Mrs Nezmith? - sat calmly nearby reading a book.  
"Feeling better?"  
"I'm sorry," he blurted.  
"Whatever for?" she reached over to soothe his hair into place, brushing an ear and his cheek by co-incidence. "It's perfectly natural to be nervous, Kurt. New things can be frightening."  
He sat up, trying not to cower from the gentle woman with the coffee skin and patient expression. This place was bright with creations from kids of all ages, posters adorned the walls where the bookshelves permitted, and bright, multi-coloured spines rested with no apparent order within. The alphabet marched around the interior, near the ceiling, in both upper and lower case. In three different fonts.  
Neat desks waited for the other children, who peered up at him from books or toys. They were not the wooden ones featured on television, but collapsable ones designed to fold away into a minimum amount of space.  
It was so completely different to what he expected.  
"I'm sorry," he murmured.  
"There's nothing to be sorry about, dear."  
"...sorry..."  
Mrs Nezmith sighed. "We're ready to begin if you'd like to join us."  
He chose a desk in a corner, so very little could come at him from behind, and he could see anything or anyone that approached.  
Learning here was another opposite of what he'd seen on the television. Each student bent to their appointed tasks and politely waited their turn for attention. There were no spitballs, flying paper planes, no disruptions. Mrs Nezmith was kind and gentle, coaxing him out of his shell with soft words of encouragement.  
It still didn't make him talk very much. His near-lifetime of silence under the iron fist of Sir was hard to shake. As was his edginess when certain sudden moves occurred too close to him.  
One by one, the others were allowed to return to their work outside of the school trailer. As the attrition continued, Kurt grew increasingly nervous. Had he done something that warranted detention? Was Mrs Nezmith reserving some form of 'special treatment' for him?  
This was, after all, not heaven.  
If Sir could still get to him, then so could others *like* him.  
And he didn't even know what rules he'd broken, here.  
Mrs Nezmith sat near him. Waited for his breathing to slow down again. Smiled. "You've been very quiet."  
"...sorry..." he said, barely audible.  
"It's okay," she said. Mrs Nezmith had surrendered long ago to his endless appologies. "I understand. The last place you were in... before you came to us... bad things happened there, didn't they?"  
He looked down, focussing on his hands. They gripped the edge of the table so hard that they almost burned. "...ja..."  
"I promise I won't hurt you," said Mrs Nezmith. "I just want you to know that you can talk to me if you need to."  
She hadn't made any kind of move towards him. Kurt risked lessening his grip on the desk. Not even a twitch.  
"The people you used to live with hurt you, didn't they?"  
Lying was a sin. Telling people about what Sir did - resulted in pain. Sir had been away for a long time, and that meant that his next visit was going to be soon. He'd bring Karl with him... and all that that implied.  
If Sir was brute force personified, Karl was insinuation. He would slink and sneak his way in. Seep like slow poison inside and then... Kurt winced, and hung his head. Not a nod. Only half a nod.  
Maybe that wasn't really telling.  
Mrs Nezmith's hand on his shoulder was warm and comforting. "It wasn't your fault, Kurt. You need to remember that. Everything bad they did to you was all in them. It was never your fault."  
It was so hard to believe her. Bad things happened because he'd been bad. That's all there was to it. Sometimes, he could be bad just by breathing, especially when Sir had been into his bottles... and he was never, ever good... because he was a demon.  
"...can I go?" he risked. Mama-Celia had said he could join the acrobats on the trampoline after he was finished with his schooling.  
Mrs Nezmith ruffled his hair and palmed a lolly into his hand as she took it to guide him outside. "Of course. Just try to bring more words with you, tomorrow, hm?"  
"...'nk you..." he managed, and shot away from the trailer like a bullet out of a gun.

Celia found him in his element - showing off in midair. This Kurt was a complete transformation from the timid creature who had - according to all reports - fainted in front of the school trailer. *This* Kurt was a joy to behold. A wonder and a marvel infused with pure grace and possessed by the very spirit of style.  
He was so *happy* up there.  
So what if he didn't talk a lot? As long as he was happy, that was all that mattered... wasn't it?  
Still... Mrs Nezmith *had* rather implied that Child Protection Services would much prefer it if he were happy *and* rehabilitated. It would, she'd said, go better for them in the long run.  
Just the mental image of what the foster home system would do to him was enough to give her nightmares. The state would definitely not rehabilitate Kurt... but it would pretend it had until something exploded or someone died. *Then*, they'd act surprised.  
If she had his best interests in heart, she'd do her damndest to make ,≈JI.sure he was as well-rounded as she could get him. And that included encouraging him to talk.  
"Kurt? Can you come down for a second?"  
Bounce, flip, twist, somersault... he landed, light as a cat, in front of her. All unadulterated exhuberance.  
It fell away from him the instant he saw her expression. "I'm in trouble," he said.  
No more than three words. The exact same problem Lynn had had with him in class. He'd only read aloud when he was alone with her, and then, in quiet, hushed tones that could barely be heard. Any other time, his answers and responses were carefully calculated to not break the three-word rule, and he seemed to labor under the weight of it.  
"We're just worried, honey," she soothed, placing a restraining, though gentle hand on his shoulder. "Most kids your age - you can't shut them up, you know? You're too quiet... and you should know by now that you're safe with us."  
"I know."  
"So why are you still afraid?"  
He scratched his arm, rubbing the memory of his freshest scar. An injury that was a week old when she met him in the trailer of that pickup truck. Kurt cringed as if anticipating punishment. "Feels like..." a panicky glance around the area. "Sir is coming."  
With that pseudo-infraction of his 'rule', the transformation was complete. Once again, he was the timid and broken creature he'd been when she first realized he was more than what he seemed.  
Celia let him hide in her arms, looking about as if daring the Shitheads to turn up on her watch. "He's not coming, hon. He's not coming ever again, if I can help it. He'd have to get through the whole circus to get to you. Elephants and all."  
Kurt trembled against her, his tail wound tight around her leg. "Still scared," he whispered. "Sorry."  
"It's going to be okay," she vowed. "It's going to get better."  
Those words were the ironic beginning to what she would forever think of as the Week From Hell.

A Circus has two mortal enemies. One is fire, that eats its very bones away quicker than one would believe possible. The other is rain, that banishes customers and devours profit margins.  
This rain had reached almost biblical proportions in the space of forty *hours*, rather than forty days and nights. The field they'd camped in became an instant quagmire. Children raced plastic toys in the faster-flowing streamlets of water. The few brave enough to spend their money on the circus ventured out with umbrellas and plastic macks, dashing between the big top and whatever patch of high land held their cars.  
None lingered to spend money on the sideshows, where they made most of their money.  
It made Kurt's creature act an exercise in misery, since most of his tent was at least ankle-deep in water, and no-one came to watch, *anyway*.  
When the water rose to mid-calf level, they scrapped the act and retreated inside the big top to do trampoline practice. It was still as wet, in there, but at least he had the audience he craved.  
"Ve must to put ze horses somevere."  
"Huh?" Celia turned.  
It was Hans. "Ve must to put ze horses somevere," he said. "Ze mud is being no gut in their foots."  
And the old stopgap of strewing straw on the ground to make the mud less like quicksand was not an option anymore. Entire bales would be wasted in the effort if they tried.  
Besides, it'd float away.  
"We'll have to kludge something up inside the big top," Celia decided.  
"Was diese 'kludge' ist?"  
"Das ist ein 'Flickschusterei'," said Kurt.  
Celia was temporarily croggled. _He speaks German? Wait. *Duh*. Of course he speaks German..._ All research indicated that Kurt originally hailed from the country, where his Mama had lived with that ass, Lamprey. Where she'd died, too.  
By the time she was done feeling sorry for the late Mrs Wagner, Kurt and Hans were deep into a spirited conversation about their home country. Or at least, that's what she guessed from the few words she could pick out. Conversations with Hans before this had always been a halting effort to pick up meaning in context - by both parties.  
Seeing the old man in a lively conversation was a shock and a delight.  
Loath to interrupt him and drag him back into foundering awkwardness, Celia went searching for the riggers. If anyone could kludge up something for the horses, it was them.  
Maybe something involving the flatbeds that usually hauled the poles and canvas. And she'd have to talk to Seth about moving to dry land.  
She stepped in the wrong place and winced as her galoshes filled with water.  
Freezing cold water.  
Maybe she should just talk to Seth. Now.

The final straw had come when Gilda's trailer slowly drifted through the campsite after an argument about how deep the water was getting. Even then, it took some creative towing to get them out of the floodwaters and on the road again.  
Roads that were washed out, half the time.  
It was a long, miserable trip to the next town - during which most of the crew became completely stir-crazy - only to find that their usual arena of display had turned into a small lake due to the unseasonable rain.  
In order to cross the swollen river to their next stop, they had to take a miles-long detour around to the next-most-stable bridge. Their usual one had been last seen heading out to sea.  
Then the heater blew out in Wendel's caravan, and he caught a cold from the resultant chill.  
At least the third town was mostly dry, and hailed the circus for breaking a drought, but that only encouraged *half* of their usual audience to ford the small streams flowing through the campgrounds to watch the show. None dallied at the sideshows.  
The only bright spot in the entire waterlogged week was Kurt's inclusion in a tumbling clown act. With mittens, a wig that covered his ears, some ingenious costume work and a bit of powder, no-one watching could have thought him anything but human.  
The rain cleared to spotty showers by the end of the week, but that didn't stop their next camp from being a squishy quagmire of mud and anaemic grass, over which planks were spread to stop the thoroughfares from becoming mud soup.  
It also served to explain how Jesse and the other elephants pulled out their chain's pin and took it upon themselves to investigate the local Baptist Church's fundraiser fete... where she and five other elephants consumed most of the merchandise - including two hundred trays of Mrs Kerghoffer's prize-winning brandy and prune danish. They finished off a produce stall for dessert before drunkenly exploring the nutritional values of the fete tents before the assembled troop could herd them back to their squishy, muddy home.  
Then the prunes kicked in.  
The troupe had had to negotiate with the Baptist Ladies' Auxilliary in order to pay for the damages. They settled for a free performance and as much organic fertilliser as they could cart away.  
And now... there was *this*.  
On top of being behind schedule and hovering on the brink of debt with several trailer loads of hung-over elephants, some bunch of lunatics was holding up the road to inspect every large enough vehicle.

Celia fumed at the line of traffic in front of her. It hadn't perceptibly moved in two hours. Two hours in the baking, humid heat. Behind an elephant trailer. Staring at an elephant's ass for ages on end hadn't improved her mood.  
Neither had the shower that did nothing to alleviate the heat.  
"Isn't a week of rain *enough*?" she demanded. Sickly patches of sunshine blasted steam off puddles in the distance. For all their timid pale hue, they were fierce. "One frikkin' week of solid downpour aught to be *plenty*... but *no*... *We* had to deal with a washed out bridge that made us late for everywhere else we have to be. Our fire-eater's still down with the damn 'flu. Our stupid frikkin' elephants had to get loose, get toasted, and get diarrhea in the same day... I can't find a station that's worth *shit*--"  
{splet}  
Celia wiped the heavy drop of water off her brow. "--and to top it all off, there's a *LEAK* in my freakin' *ROOF*!"  
Kurt cringed in the shotgun seat.  
_Fuck._ "Aw geez, I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and calmed down before reaching over to soothe his arm back down. "I'm not mad at you, okay? I'm never mad at *you*... no matter what happens in the world outside."  
Mrs Nezmith, along with being an excellent teacher, was a child psychologist of more than decent merit. In her own words, Kurt had "been screwed around with by professionals", and the lingering mental scars weren't going to go away overnight.  
He was showing improvement on the zigzag path to a better life, but at any given time, he could jump backwards due to any random trigger.  
All they could do was catalogue the triggers and do their best to keep them away from him, and vice versa.  
Kurt relaxed. "It's hard to remember," he said.  
"I know, I know. Old habits." Celia found some gum in the glove compartment and worked up a wad. Just enough to plug the tiny leak above her forehead. It'd hold until she could make it to a garage. Preferably one that didn't have bumper to bumper traffic seething on the only road that went past it.  
The sign she was just now inching towards declared this pissant little truckstop town to be Blind River, somewhere outside New Orleans. The array of badges declaring the societies embedded therein told Celia more than she ever wanted to know about the lack of social life in this dirtwater town.  
Five minute's motion for two hours' worth of ass-numbing boredom. Once again, Celia considered schlepping over to the still-distant diner for something homemade and possibly fried in lard. Or mostly chocolate. Or mostly chocolate *and* fried in lard. Whatever.  
And, just like the last time she'd stared wistfully at the diner, the line of traffic in front of her moved a fraction of an inch. Just enough to prompt her to take her foot off the brake and glide closer to the trailer in front of her - but not *too* close, owing to the fact that the elephants were still in posession of "touchy" stomachs.  
Bored once more, she flipped through the availlable radio stations.  
"...Ah just might drive to blazes and not caarre..." fzzzzt...  
"...mountain town, so far away. Yo-del-ay-hee del-ay-hee del-ay-hee... woo-woo... hoo..." fzzt...  
"...will you answer true-oo-ooo-oo-oo-ooo-ooo-ooooo..." fzztt...  
"...achey breaky heart..." ffwwwzzzzzt...  
"...an' Ah thanked ol' Desert Pete..."  
Celia sighed and turned the radio off. _Another hour of this and I might suspect I've gone to Hell..._  
An umbrella appeared by her window. Celia rolled it down to find Betty underneath the portable shelter.  
"I come bearing chocolate in the form of muffins."  
"You read my mind," said Celia. She took the bag and inhaled the aroma. "Oh *GOD*, did you read my mind." One muffin, she instantly handed to Kurt.  
"Bad day at the office, huh?"  
"Merely contemplating why my life so suddenly contains such vast quantities of suck. I mean, after all *this* - what could make it worse?"  
"And on that note, I have good news and bad news..."  
"Don't tell me, let me guess. The good news is that you know the answer. The bad news is, you're going to tell me."  
"Bingo, bango, bongo; the lady just won a kewpie doll," Betty deadpanned. "Turns out that the lunatic fringe on the road block are on a mutie hunt."  
As one, they both stared at Kurt.  
He froze in the act of chewing half a muffin. "Was?"

~

"Diahhretic drunken elephants, 'flu-ridden fire-eaters, floods to rival Noah's..." Celia scrambled out of the car. "Mutant-hunting God-damned *loonies*!"  
"They call themselves the 'Friends of Humanity'," Betty informed.  
"They can call themselves the fucknuckles from Hell for all I care," once outside, she was wet and steamed inside a handful of seconds. The umbrella was all but useless for her, so she used it to shelter Kurt. "C'mon, sweetie. If they find their mutant, fine - but we can't let 'em find *you*."  
Kurt swallowed the last of his muffin, tucked his tail inside his coat, and picked his way back to the trailer they shared. Mud and fur never got on and, amongst other things, Kurt abhorred being cold and wet.  
Jaime was holding the door open for them. He, too, had telepathically divined Celia's need for chocolate and held a couple of bags of oven-fresh cookies in his sheltering hand.  
"Bless you," Celia sighed. One packet on the table for immediate consumption, and the other went straight into tupperware for later rationing.  
There was too much to do until she could share them, though.  
One - while Kurt was doing his finicky thing with cleaning himself - carefully remove all traces that he was actually human and sharing living space with her.  
While she was rounding up clues to his human existance, Kurt battled with the porta-cage, a constructable enclosure suitable for watching over sick or wounded animals. Although the long-absent packaging declared it to be easily assembled, Celia had never got the hang of it. Now Kurt was evidently not getting the hang of it either. Soft teutonic curses punctuated the air, accompanied by the gentle clang and crash as bits and pieces of the hated cage either collapsed against each other or defiantly flew out of their appointed place.  
"There's a bunch of 'em coming up the road," said Betty through a window. "We're gonna stall 'em for as long as we can, but get a rattle on, hon."  
Laundry mixed thoroughly shouldn't warrant *too* many questions. The pants were easily explained by Kurt's presence. The DVD's were cool. They   
didn't know her or her preferences. Dish-washing, alas, was going to take up most of her time.  
Beds made, small scatterings tidied away, Kurt... almost done wrestling with that *fucking* cage... dishes in the sink.  
Kurt clambered inside the cage, taking up an animal posture.  
"Shirt! Kurt, your shirt!"  
Kurt looked down in confusion, and took a subjective age to realize that animals didn't wear shirts. He skinned out of it and handed it through the door. Celia practically flew with it to the laundry basket, and decided to cover up the moisture in the bathroom by having her own shower.  
Thus, when the FOH came, she was wearing little else but a bathrobe.  
"Do you people *mind*?" she hollered. "There's such a thing as *privacy*, you know."  
"Feminazi," muttered one of them.  
"Bull-dyke," murmured another.  
"...morons..." Celia sub-vocalized.  
They peeked into the more obvious storage spaces, riffled through her underwear, and then uncovered Kurt.  
"Jesus H. Christ on a fucking bicycle... what in hell *is* that?"  
Celia reached for her flashlight. It was one of those old-style metal ones that could, in a pinch, double as a club. "He's our star, and you're leaving him alone."  
Kurt, pretending to be asleep, opened one eye and glared at the man. He started a low growl, almost subliminal.  
Not inclined to take a subtle hint, the guy stuck his finger through the metal grid. "So what exactly *is* it?"  
"On the top five: worth more than you'd make in a lifetime, not available for sale, not available for rental, easily aggravated *and* dangerous when provoked."  
Kurt's growl went up a notch or three.  
"I'd move if I were you. Especially if you like that finger."  
"...eep."  
"Let's go, Duke. That Mutie ain't here."  
"But what 'bout--"  
"Forget it. It's already in a cage."  
Neither of them had noticed that the cage didn't have a lock on it.  
Celia locked her trailer door and let out the breath she'd been holding since Duke had become overly curious. "Anti-mutant, god-damned *idiots*..." she sighed. She'd only feel true relief when the traffic started moving again, but having them out of the way was a definite plus.  
Kurt, out of the cage and struggling into a clean shirt, gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.  
"Yeah. They're gone. Time for the ritual mixing of chocolate and bad cinema." She reached for the bag of cookies on the table...  
...that were no longer there.  
"--The hell?"  
They'd been on the table a minute ago. She could have *sworn* that those FOH bastards hadn't gone near it. There was no bag under the table. Nor anywhere in the kitchen. Nor in the temporary storage areas where she might have absently placed them.

Kurt sniffed. He could still smell them. They'd been on the table, yes... and then they moved... *that* way. He followed the trail, tail twitching, to one of the less-obvious storage spaces.  
{...crnch, crnch, crnch, crnch...}  
Something was *in* there.  
Kurt's hand paused at the latch, and he sent a brief prayer heavenwards that whatever it was would *not* leap out and scare several years out of both him and Mama-Celia. Preferably something harmless and cute, like a raccoon. They *had* raccoons, here, didn't they?  
He opened the door.  
And found himself staring into demonic eyes.  
Black sclera. Red iris.  
But still human. Still frightened.  
And he was eating *their* cookies...  
"Dieu..." the stranger breathed.  
Kurt had frozen. He didn't know what to *do*. "Mama...?"  
"Il parle!"

By the time Celia got back to the kitchen, there was a bilingual argument going on.  
"Of course I talk! What? Did you think I was a *pet*?"  
"C'est impossible. Quelle sorte d'une maison de fous est ceci?"  
"It's your fault! You decided to walk into a circus trailer. Dummkopf."  
"Oui, mais moi a marché dans un bas de page d'entraóneur animal... qu'ils n'ont pas -- Quelle êtes-vous, quoi qu'il en soit? Une certaine sorte de bête parlante?"  
"I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!"  
Celia got enough of her wits together to point her emergency tranq gun at the new kid. "*YOU*! Hands on your head and don't move! And *you*--" she indicated Kurt with her free hand. "When the hell did you learn *French*?"  
Kurt's only answer was a confused shrug.  
The older boy had his hands on his head and was trying charm. "Your pardon, mademoiselle. Remy was just 'bout to leave."  
"He ate our cookies," Kurt wailed, pointing. "You're not gonna let him *go*..."  
"Remy was starving, brouillé," the kid shot back. "He like to see *you* after two weeks of eatin' whatever you could scrounge."  
"*Two* weeks? Is *that* all?" Kurt scoffed. "Wuss."  
"Ques'que--" Remy boggled, then stared at her. "Chere... Remy get de feeling he in deep water, non?"  
"Breaking and entering... theft... Mama? Is he a stowaway?"  
Remy sidled towards the door. "Remy didn't mean to cause no trouble, Chere. He jus' be on his way, now..."  
"Don't. Even. *Think*. About it," Celia warned, waving the gun at him. "I'm pretty sure none of us want to see me use this." _Especially me._ "Besides, those idiots are bound to double back and I *think* you might want to miss them."  
"Oui. Def'nitely oui."  
"So lets get down to brass tacks. Who are you and why *exactly* are those numbskulls after you?"  
"Je m'apelle Remy LeBeau, Chere... As for de Fiends? You could say Remy played de wrong ace."  
"How do you play a wrong ace?" said Kurt.  
"Dere's three ways. You pick it from de sleeve an' get caught, you play it when someone else be holdin' de other four... or dere's my way an' you make it blow up de card table. Remy did two o' those."  
"But aren't there four aces in a deck?"  
"Oui. Dat's why he holdin' de wrong ace." He shrugged. "So Remy improvise... boom! Now dey after me."  
"How the hell old are you?"  
"Uh... me'be sixteen?"  
Then that anaemic goatee was an attempt to look older so he could cheat at cards. This kid was a *real* winner...  
He was also rail thin, dirty, and sorely in need of help. Those idiots outside had guns, and Celia was willing to bet that they were *not* loaded with tranq's.  
"Okay. Here's the deal," she announced. "You want to hide out with us, you have to work *with* us. You're part of the troop. Any time you want to leave, we'll look up your nearest relatives and drop you off."  
An appologetic grin. "Remy's relations be easy to find, Chere... but you might not wanna leave him wit' dem."  
She could feel the answer, but she had to ask, anyway. "And why's that?"  
"All Remy's family be in jail right now."  
_Big surprise..._ Celia sighed. "I--" _--might regret this._ "--can make up another bunk for now."  
"*What*?" said Kurt. "Why?"  
"Like it or not, hon, he's the first person around here who's made you speak more than four consecutive words in English. As near as I'm concerned, that's rehabilitation."  
"He in rehab?"  
"Long story." Celia put the gun away. "We should be moving sometime soon, so you two play nice."  
"And give back the jewellery," said Kurt.  
Celia glared at Remy, who glared at Kurt. "Judas," muttered Remy, emptying his pockets. "Remy was goin' give dem back, anyhow. He don' usually steal from people hidin' him."  
"Don't do it again," growled Celia. "*I* might be generous, but Seth runs this show and if you screw up once too often we might not care how many weeks you go hungry."  
"Remy get de picture, Chere. Remy be good."

Seth's introduction to Remy happened during the hustle and bustle of the next - slightly waterlogged - camp. In the midst of deciding which particular patch of soggy ground could logically contain what, he was faced with the demon-eyed teen.  
"Where the hell did *he* come from?"  
"N'awlins?" suggested Remy.  
Celia ignored him. "Remember that road block?"  
"...o God, no..." Seth muttered.  
"Yeah. They were hunting him."  
"Remy play de wrong ace," he supplied.  
Seth gave the boy a solid glare. "Celia... we don't need that sort of bad element in this crew. Just find some of his relatives and--"  
"They're all in jail, Seth. He has nowhere to go."  
"I'm running a *circus*, Cee... not an orphanage."  
"Remy be de good boy while he stay here, if dat help," offered the cajun.  
Seth was momentarily distracted. "Does he always talk in third person?"  
"Only in English," said Kurt. "If you want him to be less annoying, you have to speak French."  
Remy glared at Kurt. "Less annoying?"  
"Only marginally," Kurt grinned.  
"Kurt's *talking*," marvelled Seth. "English! When did this happen?"  
"Five seconds after 'trouble', here, filched the cookies."  
"...'ey! Remy was too hungry, Chere. You should not hold that against him."  
"Hush," Celia said. "You know what the system would do to him, Seth."  
Seth moaned. "All right. Fine. You're his guardian, now. Mazel tov."  
"What? When did *I* volunteer to be den mother?"  
"You fed him," said Seth. "You let him follow you home..."  
"He broke in," said Kurt. "He didn't follow anyone."  
"You ain't helpin' nobody, brouillé..."  
Oh, *this* was going to be fun. Entertainment in the form of continued bickering with accents.  
_I just need one more mutant to make my home a *complete* tower of babel..._  
"Okay. *Fine*," she grumped on the way back. "Rule one, kid. No attempting to look older than you are. You're shaving, end of story. Rule two, *NO* illegal activity. What. So. Ever. You might be old enough to be emancipated, but I'm not about to schlep to wherever to bail you out when you get caught."  
"You wound Remy's pride, Chere."  
"Three. My name is Celia. Celia Yale. I'll answer to Celia, Cee, Ms Yale, and ma'am in a pinch. I am your guardian, not your *date*."  
Remy harrumphed and did his level best not to pout.  
"Four. Even though you've been good at bringing Kurt out of his shell, you do *not* automatically have a licence to be a bad influence on him. God knows why, but he just might look up to you, so be responsible or I'll kick your ass from here to Hades. Capiche?"  
A mournful sigh. "Oui."  
"And no card games for money."  
"You jus' take de fun outta everythin'..." he pouted.  
"You're sixteen. Fun is something you're supposed to sneak out for."  
He brightened. "Remy can live wi' dat."  
"Now. On to the business of your work."  
"Remy s'posed to get a *job*?" he boggled.  
"Why not?" said Kurt. "Everyone here works. *I* have a job."  
"Homme, you not even nine."  
"Am too!" Kurt countered. "...nearly."  
"Dere's laws against dis sorta t'ing," he protested.  
Celia grinned. "That's right. You get an alloted time to go to school--"  
"*School*?" Remy yawped. "Merde! Remy def'nitely break into de wrong trailer. Dis almos' be worse'n de Fiends..."  
Kurt reached over and thwapped him upside the back of the head. "Dummkopf! Education's a *privilege*. You should be glad you get to learn stuff."  
Remy was obviously lost. "Was he dropped on de head?"  
"Every scientific advancement since the end of the Dark Ages was because people could write stuff down and print it in books," said Kurt. "And you're saying you want to stay ignorant?" He scoffed. "Sir locked the wrong mutant in chains."  
"*What*?"  
"I told you it was a long story," said Celia. "Go on, Kurt. Tell him all about the shitheads we rescued you from."  
"It was almost all right until Mama died..." he began.

"Mama?"  
Celia put a cover over dinner. "I thought we'd got over that, sug'."  
"But... I think I broke him." Kurt pointed back to the couch, where Remy was huddled in a ball and wrapped in a blanket. One hand held a playing card between two fingers, cocked and ready to flip at any aggressor. That hand and his eyes were the only things that showed.  
"What did you *do* to him?"  
"I just told the truth."  
"All of it?"  
"Yeah...?"  
"Kurt, sweetie, you haven't told *me* all of it and I still get nightmares."  
Kurt bit his lip, looking back at the traumatized mutant. How had so much come out to a complete stranger when he couldn't bring himself to confess to the one person closest to him? "Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to..."  
Maybe that was it. He didn't want to hurt those close to him. Perhaps resentment of Remy made him more loose-lipped than usual.  
And maybe he was spending too much time hashing things out with Mrs Nezmith. He was picking up the lingo.  
Besides, Remy was now officially their problem. Breaking him on the first night was worse than bad form.  
Kurt perched on the side of the couch. "It's okay, now," he said. "There's a restraining order."  
"Ha! Remy know exac'ly how much *dey* worth..."  
"Okay," Celia drawled. "What's with the playing card?"  
Remy blinked and refocussed his attention on her. He grinned inside the darkness of his improvised shroud. "Remy's li'l trick," he said as the card began to glow between his fingers. "He can make un petite card pack all de power of a hand grenade."  
"Cool," Kurt chirped.  
"NOT INDOORS!" Mama-Celia made to grab for the card, but stopped herself. "And *especially* not in my trailer, kid!"  
The card flickered out like a candle. "Remy not stupid, petite..."  
"My *name* is *Celia*," she growled. "And I am *not* letting you blow up my *home*. Capisce?"  
"Oui, mam'selle. Remy jus' like to be prepared, is all."  
"Be 'prepared' *outside*, okay?"  
"D'accord," he mumbled, putting the card away. "But what if--?"  
"I'm sure they'll be bringing their own ammunition," said Celia. "Make *them* the instant grenade."  
"...euw..." Kurt muttered. On the other hand, the idea of Sir blown to pieces and never - *ever* - able to return and threaten this sanctuary... it had a certain appeal. He felt instantly guilty for wishing another soul dead. Maybe he *was* the monster Sir told him he was. It was just taking its time manifesting.  
Maybe he'd get more and more evil as time passed.  
That terrifying thought drove his hand to his temple, searching for the first hint of a horn. His other hand found his rosary and squeezed the cross hard into his own flesh.  
"Uh. Remy can't make livin' things blow up..." the older boy shrugged. "Call it a flaw."  
Celia boggled at him. "Okaaaayyy..." she warbled. "What else could go wrong?"

"I shouldn't have asked," Celia sighed. "I should never have asked."  
Kurt peeked out of the tent. They were being picketted by a group of protesters calling themselves Our Animal Friends. "You'd think they'd pick a better acronym," he said.  
Celia snickered as soon as she figured it out. "Awright. Enough rubber-necking. The show must go on and all that BS."  
Kurt squirmed out of his shirt and entered the cage, ready for the first show.  
_We're lucky he's so darn hyperactive,_ Celia mused as she settled into her chair. _Anyone else would be too exhausted from this work for the show in the evening._  
"Hst!"  
Celia turned to find Lynn Nezmith. "Trouble with Remy?"  
"With a capital T..." said Lynn. "He's worse than undereducated. In fact, given the struggle he's having, I'd have to say he's younger than you've been lead to believe."  
"How *much* younger?"  
Lynn's answer was drowned out by a tidal wave of noise from Our Animal Friends, who had managed to get into Kurt's show tent. All they had to do was leave the placards outside and smuggle a handicam in.  
_What is it with idiots documenting their idiocy?_ "Turn that thing off!" Celia demanded. "It's a condition of entry that no recording media be allowed in."  
"So you could continue to abuse this noble creature of the wild and get away with it!"  
"Free the creature! Free the creature!"  
One thing about the aptly-acronymed OAF - they didn't let anything petty, like Kurt's physical appearance, stop them from their self-appointed task. The more Celia asked them to be quiet so she could talk, the louder and rowdier they became.  
Troop members may have succeeded in hustling some of them outside, but more flooded in, chanting and ranting as they came.  
The loudest of them, the ringleader, got into Celia's face about the 'appalling' conditions that Kurt was kept in, about how such a noble being should not be forced into any kind of cage just for the entertainment of passing slack-jawed yokels.  
"But it's all a con," said Kurt.  
To a protestor, OAF stopped and stared.  
It helped that he was out of the cage. It helped incredibly that he was putting on a dressing gown.  
The fact that he was casually tying a knot in the sash had them gobsmacked.  
"Was?" he chirped. "None of you have heard of the 'Wild Man of Borneo'?"  
As one, they stared at his tail, which still moved as though it had a mind of its own.  
Kurt used the opportunity to grab the handicam. "Dankeschoen..." he took out the tape. "Of course, in order for my work to continue to rake in the profits, we're going to have to confiscate this." Kurt gave the handicam back. "Once, before people were so concerned about the animal acts, they used to be a circus' main form of income, but now - all that's left are people. And if someone happens to see an act they can reproduce... ffft! There goes all the money. I admit, some of it might be tricky--" here, he wriggled his tail "--but I really can't take that chance. I happen to *like* regular meals." And without further ado, Kurt pulled the tape from its casette, and edited it with his teeth.  
"You can't do that," howled the spokesperson, despite empirical evidence to the contrary. "That's personal property."  
"The staff of this attraction reserve the right to confiscate and/or destroy any recording media they find smuggled *in* to the attraction," Kurt quoted. "It's on the little disclaimer outside."  
"It's true," said Celia. "Go out and read it if you doubt us."  
The assembled members of OAF fumed, and filed out of the tent to find the relevant passages in the disclaimer.  
"They're going to be cross when they find out they have to buy more tickets to get back in," said Celia.  
"They're going to be crosser when they find out I've gone on my break," Kurt grinned.  
Celia laughed. she could get to love the way Kurt thought. "And while we're on our break," she announced, "we need to have a little 'chat' with Remy."  
"He's in trouble?" said Kurt. "Again?"  
Celia's eyes narrowed as she spotted the boy staffing one of the ball-and-target stalls. "Oh yeah. *Deep* trouble."  
"T'ree balls fo' a dollar?" the young Cajun smarmed.  
"If you're sixteen," said Celia, "I'm a monkey's uncle. And I'm not even the right *gender* for that one."  
"So Remy lie jus' a *little* about his age..."  
Kurt reached forward and rubbed Remy's chin. "Hey, look! His beard just rubs off."  
Remy went vermillion with mortification.  
Celia folded her arms. "How old *are* you?" she demanded. "The truth, this time."  
"You want de truth?"

~

"Don't give me any shit about my ability to handle any truths," said Celia. "How old are you *really*?"  
"T'irteen an' a half," Remy mumbled.  
Kurt sniffed his thumb. "It's... makeup..."  
"...mascara..." muttered the Cajun.  
"Thirteen and a half," repeated Celia. "And you put *mascara* on your facial hair."  
"Jus' to make it look real," said the boy.  
"Two words for you, kid."  
"No mo'?" Remy guessed.  
"And I was beginning to think you weren't clever."  
"Remy be streetwise, Chere... he know when to start runnin'."  
Celia glared at him. "What did you call me, young man?"  
Remy audibly swallowed. "Sorry, Ma'm'selle... force of habit." He erased the last of his smeared goatee with an abrading finger. "Remy be tryin', non?"  
"Very," said Celia. Even though she wasn't looking, she could sense Kurt grinning. "And don't gloat, Kurt. It doesn't suit you."

=============

Side-flings!

Eccleston's - Eccleston is the last name of the guy playing the new Dr Who.

Work, work, work... - WoW reference. Peons in the Orc side of the game mutter this at times.

"Clever boy..." she murmured. - Anyone else who saw the last minutes of the hunter dude in _Jurassic Park_ have now won a jelly ;)

"Whoever knew the old man had so much blood in him?" - Aw, come on. You *don't* know where this comes from? Shakespeare! *Still* the most quoted author after about five hundred years. Give him a hand, folks.

Something's rotten in the state of Michigan, - and let's not forget *mis*quoted ;)

Aslan - CS Lewis side-fling... plus I'm pretty damn tired of hearing of lions named Leo.

"It's incredible." - "...But in ze Munich Circus, I was known as ze Incredible Nightcrawler!" ^_^ My obligatory movie side-fling.

Always, the Spanish fucking Inquisition... -- "*NO*body expects the Spanish Inquisition!" ^_^ Yay for Monty Python ^_^

'coon-ape -- Raccooon-ape. A mythological/cryptozoological creature of dubious veracity.

Doc Karloff -- In the tradition of Star Trek Doctors with scary names... Who *wouldn't* be scared by a Doctor Karloff?

Celia choosing some _The Storyteller_ DVDs -- I absolutely adore that series ^_^ Three guesses what I want for Xmas ;)

"...and re-used words of evil for a good cause." -- The 'special secret' line is, apparently, the most commonly used phrase by paedophiles to their victims. Don't fall for it.

bend, warp, spindle and mutillate -- In the days of the old punch-card computers [MeMum remembers these, not I] there used to be warnings on the computerized readouts that went, "Do not fold, bend, warp, spindle or mutillate". A spindle is a spike used to keep random paperwork in one place. Not exactly common use now ^_^

"His bathwater was tepid," -- One of the more famous lines from _The Mark of Zorro_ starring Tyrone Powell ^_^ It featured in a Nightcrawler adventure titled _Show Me the Way to Go Home_ way back sometime in the 70's. And yes, I have a copy of that ish.

Father McKensy -- Anyone who does *NOT* get this rather unsubtle Beatles reference should listen to _Elenor Rigby_ non-stop until they actually *do*.

The array of badges declaring the societies embedded therein... -- Something my beloved and I have noticed whilst on the road from A to B. The more isolated, the more remote and the smaller the town, the more folderol they make about the official societies that are established there. Beats me why anyone would *brag* about having a thriving branch of the Country Womens' Association [for example] but there ya go.

Or mostly chocolate *and* fried in lard. -- Obscure _Shrek 2_ side-fling. "Somebody bring me something deep-fried and smothered in chocolate!" :D

The C&W songs Celia 'finds' on the radio are, in order; _Rest Stop_ - which is actually a filk about a space-freighter - _That Ol' Mountain Town_ by Billy Connoly, _The Indian Love Call_ - A _Mars Attacks_ side-fling - _Achey Breaky Heart_ by Billy Ray Cyrus, and _Desert Pete_ by the Kingston Trio. ^_^

"Mutant-hunting God-damned *loonies*!" -- side-fling to _Tremours_, a favourite movie of mine, and the bit where the survivalist is mourning the loss of his home... "Underground God-damned *monsters*!"

"I'm running a *circus*, Cee... not an orphanage." -- A variant on what I like to call the Starfleet Occupation Test. Better known as "I'm a doctor, not a [insert different occupation here]!" 'Damnit's optional.

"Don't give me any shit about my ability to handle any truths" -- A side-fling to _A Few Good Men_ and most of its parodies.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, hints and tips on WHN would be appreciated :)


End file.
